George and Emily Take St Louis
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: ...and just in time for the 1904 World's Fair! Featuring glitzy society affairs, Summer Olympic proceedings, and surprises at every corner. [Gemily, because the dream will never die. Rated for sexual content, violence, and death. Canon divergent from late S9, specifically excludes From Buffalo With Love and Cometh the Archer. Complete]
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hey, everyone! I'm back with a new chapter fic! It's been a long time since _Master of Tides_ , and I think I'm ready to have another formal go.

This story is AU from the end of S9. That is to say, George gets out of prison, Lillian dies, and Emily goes to London. However-and this is important-in this AU, _Cometh the Archer_ does not occur. I'm aware that my times are a little skewed from canon, but I'm hoping you will forgive this and fully buy into the idea of one of our favorite couples at the 1904 World's Fair in St. Louis.

I currently live in southern Missouri, so I've always been interested in this wonderful time in America's history. I've researched this at almost every angle to the best of my ability, but as usual, if you notice any glaring historical inaccuracies, feel free to let me know so it can be fixed. It's time for a more harrowing mystery, a more complex plot, and a more emotionally devastating romance.

There will be a few days between chapters because my summer of academic research is a little more busy than anticipated, but rest assured this story _will_ reach its natural conclusion, and it _will_ go out with a bang. Gemily mostly, unbetaed. Thanks to our very own RuthieGreen for her insight and giving me the final push I needed.

 **George and Emily Take St. Louis**

 **Chapter One**

"Lovely eyes come shine and glitter-buy your girl a popcorn fritter!" The barker hollered into his makeshift megaphone, close enough to George's ear that he winced and staggered away.

A couple dressed in their Sunday best, perhaps a decade younger than he and a hundred times more chipper, stopped in their tracks, mesmerized by the vendor's colorful display. Two assistants in striped aprons stood behind a counter bent to their work, pausing every so often to flick away spots of hot oil that lept up from the fryer. Their grins were forced as they worked in the heat of the afternoon with no hope of reprieve. If it was any consolation, they were among the thousands of local laborers having descended upon the fairway that sweltering August day.

George stepped aside so as to admit the young man and woman, gingerly cupping his prize in both hands. He'd been so careful so as not to wander into the direct sunlight with the semi-frozen treat, something a pair of enterprising salesmen had dubbed the _ice cream cornucopia_. It consisted of a crispy Middle Eastern pastry curled around itself and a scoop of vanilla custard, which constantly threatened to drip between his clasped fingers and stain the cobblestone. It was a clever idea, _really_ , but could stand to be improved.

As he watched the two strangers make small talk with the men at the booth, appearing for all the world very much in love, George felt a familiar pang of grief in his chest. He didn't see why this was so; here he was, over a thousand miles from home, out of uniform, and more relaxed than he'd been in months. After his pardoning, he had returned to work immediately, relishing the daily routine of rounding up suspects and dusting for fingermarks. However, his world was turned on its end once again with Emily's departure from Toronto. Those close to him noticed a change in his demeanor almost overnight. Whether he realized it or not, he'd just lost one of his precious few friends in the world. On the basis that he couldn't stand to see one of his constables moping around the bullpen day in and day out, Inspector Brackenreid insisted that he take an extended leave of absence. The detective had agreed after visibly wrestling with his conscience, adding that getting out of the city could only lend him better clarity of mind.

Yet that was the very crux on the issue-he'd been alone with his thoughts for _months_ , as the idea that he might rot in prison became more real by the day. George had time for every mistake he'd committed in his short lifetime to run through his mind tenfold, the melancholy punishing and all-consuming. He took the fall for a woman who he'd thought loved him-perhaps she _did_ , perhaps she _still did_. But there was no way for him to know.

His boarders were a jovial extended family living in a working class neighborhood of the city, counting themselves among the hundreds of home owners renting out their guest rooms to commuters visiting the fair. And he'd been grateful, for the hotels had been at full capacity by the time he'd ventured by train to the glittering metropolis of St. Louis.

The fairgrounds could best be described as immense, the breadth of attractions exhaustive. George had been in town for two weeks and was only now making his way down The Pike, having made the circuit of buildings at the top of the hill at a leisurely pace. In the Palace of Fine Arts, he'd perused some eleven thousand- _or so the guidebook had told him_ -works of sculpture and paint. At first he entertained the thought of stopping to sketch, but after one too many lopsided noses and mannish-looking brides, that notion had been cast aside. He'd strolled right into the center of the replica of Siam's Ben Chama Bo Phit Temple, spread his arms wide, and allowed the rich tones of vermilion and gold to dance across his eyes. For the first time in months, he felt a surge of literary inspiration coursing through his veins. Imagine, a common Newfoundlander immersed in the exotic world of elephant hunters and gems the size of one's fist! Departing the chamber after a long moment of contemplation, he offered a cursory nod to the larger than life portrait of the royal family hanging on the wall, as if thanking them for keeping silent vigil over his ruminations.

At first, he had enjoyed the feeling of being anonymous. George joined the throng of tourists gawking at the massive form of Lot's wife in the Louisiana state building, forged with a mountain of rock salt and guarded by members of the local constabulary. He'd gotten in line with people much younger than he to ride a camel, and not cared who noticed his amusement. No amount of sightseeing could hide or hinder the fact that he was incredibly lonely and drawn up within himself, and had been for some time.

Several times he thought to telephone his best friend Henry from the exchange downtown, but the astronomical cost of such a call nipped that in the bud. And so he wrote of his adventures in detail, even going so far as to describe the hypothetical legions of attractive ladies he'd encountered. There had to be something special in the water south of the border, he argued, for American women to be so full of youth and vitality. So far there had been no reply, though if the contents of the Murdoch's telegram were to be taken at face value, Station House Number Four was quite busy with several new cases. Besides, was there really ever any doubt that they could have carried on without him?

Finally finishing his ice cream, George wiped his hands on his breeches and continued onto the fairway. It was blisteringly hot without the faintest hint of a breeze. He was surrounded by the excited babble of children, the wailing of infants, and the demure chatter of adults, and found this comforting. A faintly sour scent, like the interior of a barnyard, teased his nose. Up ahead, a crowd had formed around the curve of an enclosed pen, and he soon discerned the source of the smell.

An ornithologist, incongruously dressed for a desert expedition, stood on an upturned box, shouting for all to hear the notable characteristics of the magnificent ostrich. As the man continued his lecture, he had to shout to be heard over the hushed exclamations of wonder. There were several dozen of the creatures traipsing about, their long necks and two-toned plumage displayed for all to see. George had seen a photograph of such an animal in a library book once before, but the physical sight of the brood, each taller than a full grown man, was enough to take his breath away.

Gingerly he elbowed his way to the front of the mass of people, and spotting an empty seat, took his place on a bench next to a young lady dressed in the lightest of coral silks. Her auburn hair was piled atop her head in a devil-may-care fashion, and she bore the faintest tint of blush to her cheeks. She sat in silence fanning herself, the other hand clasped in her lap. Eyes trained on the tallest of the ostriches, an ornery male that kept menacing the other creatures and lunging towards the crowd, the girl appeared enraptured.

"What imagination God must have to create such an animal," George marveled.

She made a small sound of agreement in the back of her throat. "Indeed. They call that one _Black Demon_ ," the lady replied with the barest hint of a Québécois accent.

 _What irony!_ Crabtree was about to turn to her and endeavor to start a conversation, perhaps about the sights they'd taken in, or how it came to pass that two Canadians found themselves at the same exhibition and the same precise time, when the girl was called away by an equally beautiful companion.

He sat there for a few seconds contemplating his next move, before standing and following them, against his best notions. As George fought his way back towards the cobblestones, he caught a glimpse of the massive Observation Wheel, turning on its axle far above the pandemonium on the streets. It was one of the most expensive attractions on The Pike at fifty cents, but he'd overheard that its stunning views didn't disappoint.

In the meantime, the two girls had crossed the walkway and approached the Magic Whirlpool. The exterior was imposing in design, with rectangular turrets bracketing either side of the entrance. The natural light quickly diminished as George crossed into the main atrium, and it took some time for his eyes to adjust. He soon realized that he was standing under a great archway before a waterfall, whose spray was surprisingly quite contained. Sluices of light from every part of the rainbow seeming to sparkle from its origin far above and shoot to the floor, casting odd shadows on his feet. It appeared that strategically placed lamplight was causing this effect; stepping to one side, he bore witness to a separate corridor, which contained a line of indeterminable length.

Those in line for the attraction seemed to be in poor spirits, for a delay had inconvenienced them. Whether the issue was technical or cosmetic was unknown, although speculation was rampant among the gaggle of university students George found himself standing behind.

"Perhaps another private tour," one groused. "Those _damnable_ society ladies and their _damnable_ good looks. They've been just ahead of us all day. The Chutes, the Temple of Mirth-"

"Incredible what an extra dime can get you these days," his companion agreed, squinting over his shoulder in the direction of the entrance. "And there they are now! Pretty young things. Suppose we were given the chance…"

George couldn't help but follow his gaze to the group making tracks towards the exit. They seemed to be in an awfully big hurry; a third woman had joined their procession, her hair hidden by a scarf. None paused to look back at them as they reached the threshold, re-donning their fascinators and stepping back into the crowd.

It could have been a trick of the light, but he could have sworn he'd seen a flash of pink among their skirts.

Suddenly the line began to move, and as the shadows lengthened and dissipated, George was stunned to discover that the queue had actually been quite short. At this point, it would appear foolish to double back on his path; he paid the attendant and stepped into the next rowboat, facing forward.

The youths ahead of him clearly looked upon sharing a carriage with a stranger with disdain, as the four of them managed to squeeze into a seat built for two. Soon their company was complete and the barrier ahead of them was lifted with an elongated pole. The dozen or so rowboats lurched and then began to push forward at a considerable clip. George could feel the water pumping from underneath his seat, and he privately wondered just what went into such an operation.

They rounded a corner and found themselves before a splendid cascade, not as tall as the one that had greeted them at the entrance, but still just as beautiful. The skiffs, connected together by some length of rope, made perhaps a half dozen circles around it before continuing. By then, the conversation in the cabs had fallen to little more than awestruck whisperings. The walls of the channel that had been bracing the ride fell away, revealing that they were presently in a larger, more oblong body of water. Looking to either side of him, George couldn't help but admire the crystalline blue color that the muted light created.

He could scarcely see his own hand before his face, but he could hear his companions discussing the tropical plants that had come into view on each side of them, either resting on narrow shelves or suspended from the ceiling.

"Have you ever seen something so beautiful?" It was a woman's voice, breathy with wonderment.

"I most surely have not," someone else answered as they entered another part of the attraction, wherein lights moved by unseen attendants cast illusions onto several waterfalls.

It was as if all the air had been deflated from his lungs. He _knew_ that voice.

Twisting around in his seat, he hissed into the darkness: "Emily?"

A sudden flash of light caught her stunned expression. There she was indeed, the woman who had given him the slip more than once, only two boats behind his own. "George!" She exclaimed, just as the last of the light was extinguished ahead of the grand finale.

He heard the cascade before he even saw it, and the roar of the rushing water was deafening. Then a prick of light appeared around the bend of the curved track, and someone screamed.

It took a few seconds for the last cars to reach that point in the course, but if Emily's companion's screech was any indication, they had seen it too.

At the base of the waterfall lay the crumpled body of a woman, blood coursing from a bullet wound in her head.

 _(to be continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for your encouragement and kind words! I know this may seem like secondary character overload, but each and every one of them will reappear and have a substantial role in the plot. We can't be limited by only including two or three canon characters.

The victim is a fictional member of a real family that was prominent during the turn of the century in St. Louis. We'll meet historical members of her clan, but I'm going to try and avoid tarnishing their reputation as much as possible.

You'll probably be thinking at the end of the chapter: "Well, it can't _possibly_ be that easy!" Don't worry, it definitely isn't.

Next time: Gemily has a long overdue conversation. Also, the chase is on.

 **George and Emily Take St. Louis**

 **Chapter Two**

"No one move!" George shouted out of habit, standing straight up in his seat. He didn't realize how ridiculous it sounded until it escaped his lips. The sudden shift in weight caused the boats to grind against the barrier, attracting a great deal of attention as they reached the end of the ride. They'd passed through some sort of curtain; the shadows cleared steeply, and then fell away to reveal the natural light of day.

Several passengers didn't wait for the ride to come to a complete stop against the barrier; flailing their limbs and pushing off against each other, they practically crawled the few remaining feet to the walkway. George caught a backhand to the face in the ensuing struggle; while he was regaining his balance, the others were expressing their concerns to the attendants, voices strained with fright.

While the adjoining cafe was quickly evacuated and one of the less stricken bystanders ran for help, Emily squared her shoulders and charged back towards the way they came.

Without a second thought he pursued her, stepping gingerly into the knee-deep water. Someone had had the foresight to shut off the powerful jets in wake of the tragedy, and for this he was grateful.

His hand stopped a hair's breadth from taking hold of her arm, before pulling it back. She had that determined look about her, which George knew better than to question.

Ignoring the hindrance her sopping wet skirts caused, Emily hoisted herself onto the platform. The victim had fallen some distance from the falling water, but the spray was still considerable. Gently she swept the woman's hair to one side, careful not to disturb the bullet wound, and pressed two fingers to a pulse point in her neck.

The doctor's grave expression was illuminated by the arrival of her companion, who had taken the care to roll up her bloomers before joining them, lantern held aloft as she beheld the scene.

"No pulse," Emily concluded, trying again with the inside of the wrists. Even in the muted light, George could see definite bruises from a struggle of some kind.

Now that he had the opportunity to give thought to it, he decided that Emily's friend was quite pretty. She wore her blonde hair in a no-nonsense bun, which only emphasized her ruddy facial features. Taller than he even in lifts and appearing stronger than some men he knew, she was every inch a working girl.

She cursed in some gruff-sounding foreign tongue and came to stand before them, her eyebrows knit together in concern. Several moments passed in relatively awkward silence. Truth be told, George wasn't sure where he might start to reconnect with someone he hadn't seen in almost a year-and at such an inopportune time! Thankfully, Emily spoke first.

"George," she began, in a perfectly even tone, "This is my friend-"

A hand was pushed in his direction, which he took to be the precursor to a handshake. "Anechka Kapralova. Dearest Emily is renting the room above my father's shop."

 _Dearest_? Was this a new lover? No matter-perhaps he'd have time to agonize over that word choice later, but _not_ when they were standing before a dead body. "I'm George Crabtree. I know Miss Grace from-"

"Oh, I know you," she said earnestly, her accent causing several words to slur together. "I've heard so much about you, Mr. _Crabs-tree._ All good things."

 _Good lord._ All of a sudden he felt sick to his stomach. Accepting the foregone salutation, he took a moment to study the position of the fallen woman; her feet were pointing towards the center of the waterfall, yet her hair and shoulders seemed to be the only thoroughly wet portions of her.

Noticing that he'd been inching closer to her, Emily sought the opportunity to bring George back to earth. "The deceased was shot after having been in the water. See how the blood is fresh here. Perhaps our culprit initially attempted drowning."

If this was so, it wouldn't have been fast enough. The image of the three women making quick tracks towards the exit came to mind. They were indeed the last ones through the Magic Whirlpool before himself, and even in the dimmest of light a corpse couldn't be mistaken as an illusion.

"She was a woman of means, this poor soul," Anechka observed, indicating the expensive lace yoke around her collar. "And she was wearing cosmetics when she passed. I'd wager to say her hair was shoulder length and partially curled."

This was, of course, before the poor lady had been dragged underwater and beaten, but those were details a public citizen wouldn't have ordinarily picked up on.

Emily caught on to his confusion and remedied it. "Anechka is a portraitist for the Metropolitan Police Department. That's how we got on, similar interests and all."

He nodded and sized the Russian expatriate up once more, not as a romantic rival, but a brother in arms. And, despite the dire situation, she returned his smile.

Muffled voices reached them from some distance away, followed by the barking of dogs. Thankfully, only three members of the local constabulary entered the chamber, one after another. Two of them wore blue uniform coats and matching trousers, their nightsticks tucked securely into their belts. The gentleman at the front was dressed much in the manner of William Murdoch, but the lapels of his dusky suit sporting several medals. Strangely enough, he was the only one armed, the handle of an exquisitely carved pistol jutting out of its holster.

"Out of the way, madam. The coroner is on his way," one of the men asserted, making a gratuitous waving motion with his hand.

"I'm a doctor," Emily ground out, and didn't look up from her work.

Sensing that they were mere moments from being tossed out on their backsides, George took a moment to introduce himself, even flashing his badge from the billfold in his pocket.

The man in the center took all of this in, the corners of his prodigious mustache twitching with contemplation. Finally, he noticed the silent third party. "You're the young lady that does the sketches for the boys on the beat, aren't you?"

It was as if all the confidence in Anechka's demeanor dissipated in that moment. Ducking her head, she avoided eye contact with her superior.

This was a bad sign, but George had dealt with more disagreeable people. At last the man of the hour arrived, a gray-haired physician toting a massive bag of tools. He was shortly accompanied by another, a working class sort sporting overalls and a broad swipe of machine grease across his cheek.

"It's the durndest thing, I _told_ you," the attendant huffed. "Three girls came in, three girls came out. They wanted to have a private tour. Who was I to refuse two dollars?"

The American coroner stopped short, causing a small pile up. Squinting into the near darkness, he exclaimed, "Dr. Grace? Is that you?"

Emily at last surrendered her protective stance over the deceased, pulling herself up to full height. "Dr. Haynes! Why, I haven't seen you since-"

"Graduation," he concluded, and stepped between her and his coworkers. "It's quite alright, gentlemen. She's a former pupil from my days at that women's college in Ontario."

The coincidence simply floored him. Was there anyone in the city that Emily _didn't_ know, or summarily couldn't win over?

"It's not the first suspicious death at the fair," the mustachioed man, who soon introduced himself as Detective Kidwell, confessed. He made a quick survey of his surroundings before returning to the same exact position. "And certainly not the first shooting."

George didn't see the sense in making such inane comments that contributed nothing to the investigation. The good doctor sighed deeply and helped Emily roll the victim over to a supine position, one hand clasped against her temple from which blood still flowed.

"That ain't one of the girls that come in. There was a redhead, a pretty fair thing, and a dark headed girl." The laborer trundled over and disappeared partially behind the waterfall. A wretched mechanical grinding sound came from the wall and the cascade shut off almost immediately.

Now that they could hear one another without shouting, George asked, "Was the redhead wearing a pink dress? And one of her friends, a green one?"

"I reckon they were," he answered, a little bewildered at his precise memory. "But there weren't no blondes gotten on my ride at that time, just so's you understand. This 'un looks familiar, though."

One of the officers took a step forward and studied the girl's death mask, her eyes wide and mouth gaping with abject terror. "She ought to. Everyone in these parts knows Celia Vandeventer."

His compatriot clicked his tongue in agreement. "She's pretty far from the family compound, I'd wager to say. This'll be a fine how-do-you-do on the society pages, that's for damn sure."

Now that they mentioned it, he could easily see the deceased having been a debutante. In her present state, she appeared no more than twenty years of age, though one couldn't be sure. Deep in thought, George shifted over and the toe of a water logged shoe caught on something.

Bending down, he reached into the murky water and retrieved a parasol, mostly white and tastefully emblazoned with orchid flowers. Even the doctors, who had been conferring quietly about their findings, stopped to examine his discovery.

Noting how the fabric had yet to be sufficiently stained by the Whirlpool, whose water was pumped seventeen miles upstream from the grubby Mississippi River, the policemen concluded that it was a recent loss. As it were, the technician recognized the handiwork of a nearby salesman, who made his livelihood by making daily rentals of straw hats and parasols to passersby. Each one was painted with a specific number on the hilt to hasten inventory, and this one was no exception. He excused himself to gather the man in question and his address book, if only it would speed up their investigation and allow business to continue for the day.

In the meantime, the unfortunate Miss Vandeventer was draped in a canvas bag and carried out to the atrium. George fully understood that he was outside his jurisdiction-as Detective Kidwell kept reminding him-but felt oddly responsible for the state of the victim, considering he may have been the last one to see one of her murderers. Even Emily, casting a long and indecipherable glance in his direction, shook hands with her former docent and moved off a few steps towards the exit.

Soon the two workers returned with the guest book. The umbrella salesman seemed utterly perplexed by his involvement in such proceedings, but soon located _number_ _sixteen_ in his logs.

"It was just a bit after midday. She'd been standing in front of Whirlpool for some time, you see, so I called her over. She said she'd been waiting for friends, and I jumped at the chance to make a sale. Here's her signature, stating that she understood she must return my property by a half hour after sundown. Plain as day. _Eva Murdoch_."

Crabtree felt an odd twinge of dread stir within his gut. Set apart, these weren't exactly uncommon names. But together and in conjunction with a suspicious death, it was enough to give him pause.

His former lover was back at his side, ushering him to sit down in one of the many chairs set aside for the patrons. Both recalled the escapades of one particularly conniving Eva Pearce, who used her charming looks to manipulate some of Toronto's finest. She possessed a level wit to her, such that even William Murdoch could scarcely contend with her deranged whims. The last they'd heard of her, she'd escaped asylum, but only after tricking her fellow inmates into nearly murdering Dr. Ogden. Her singular obsession with the detective was an unforgettable idiosyncrasy of the young lady, but surely she wouldn't have come all the way to St Louis in her never-ending quest for wealth and a subservient husband. _Surely_ -

Anechka, who had been observing all of this unfold with silent deliberation, jumped at the opportunity to assist. She divested the man of his fountain pen and, turning the guest book over to a blank page, prompted, "Would you mind describing the woman, sir?"

The Missourian detective appeared bored with her attempts to help, delegating one of the constables to fetch a hearse buggy, and the other to proceed to Vandeventer Place with all haste to inform the family. He was clearly about immediate action, an unwelcome diversion from Station House Number Four's routine.

Meanwhile, George and Emily waited in silence as a woman's face slowly began to take shape. She had yet to remove her hand from his shoulder, and it weighed on him like a ton of bricks. Before he could reconsider, he met her halfway, and their fingers curled around one another. It was a comforting gesture more than anything. However, that didn't explain why his heart was beating out of time.

At long last the sketch was complete, and Anechka offered a modest, if immaculately detailed, rendering of a woman with a small smirk on her lips. Her dark curls fanned out from either temple, barely restrained by a gauzy headscarf.

For the both of them, it was safe to say that their holiday was officially over.

"Gentlemen-" George cut in, and attempted to stand. He found that his knees threatened to give out from under him, so he remained sitting. "We are dealing with a very dangerous fugitive. Please, if you will allow me, I must contact my superiors immediately."

 _(to be continued)_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: And we're chugging right along! Thanks to Susan Viktorija for pointing out something very important...in this canon divergence, _From Buffalo With Love_ does not occur. I don't have anything against Nina, but Gemily reigns supreme in my book.

Just a touch of fluff to tide us over for several action-heavy chapters. References to 4x05 _Monsieur Murdoch_. Please excuse the tense change halfway through; I feel it is necessary to maintain coherence.

Next time: George and Emily go hunting for clues. A splendid opportunity presents itself.

 **George and Emily Take St Louis**

 **Chapter Three**

"Less than two minutes," George insisted, pacing the length of the interview room. "It couldn't have been longer than that."

Dr. Grace frowned, tracing circles with her finger into the table. A pad of paper, now discarded, lay between them. Somehow they had hit a roadblock in their quest to remember every conceivable detail of their jaunt on board the Magic Whirlpool. The ride had been shut down for the remainder of the afternoon; while the proprietor had initially been upset, he'd stopped by the station with the blueprints to the building a few hours later. Both were convinced that his motives lay in clearing his own name rather than assisting the investigation.

"How does one commit a heinous murder in less time? Shooting, I can see, but also attempted drowning _and_ a physical struggle? Not to mention going to the trouble to position the body _just right_..." He stopped at the head of the table where Anechka sat studying her fingernails. Surreptitiously the two women made eye contact, and Emily shook her head. While she preferred to confine her reasoning to her thoughts, George had always wondered aloud. It was one of the little things she missed about him.

 _One of the many things._

"The girls were likely working together," the portraitist said a little too loudly, trying to interject a new perspective into the argument without sounding obtrusive.

In the corridor, a door slammed. Two men walked past the shaded windows, carousing among themselves, and did not spare a glance to the waiting party. Emily pressed, "Or perhaps one of them was not. You did say that the redhead was called away from the ostrich exhibition; her safety may be contingent on silence."

It had been six hours since the body of Celia Vandeventer was found, and no leads had been discovered. Not only that, not a soul had come forward to say that they had seen something relevant to the cause. George was beginning to grow worried that Miss Pearce had attracted followers and a renewed thirst for vengeance.

This concern may have been unfounded, but he had no way of knowing. He'd certainly solved cases before without the guidance of Murdoch, but always in familiar territory and never without a fellow constable. Presently, his biggest fear was that as a foreign citizen, he would be cut out of the investigation entirely. George felt partially responsible to see Eva's capture through; she'd started it with the suspicious death of her boss at Eaton's, and he was going to finish it.

Detective Kidwell swept in with an air of urgency, a folder tucked under his arm. Closing the door solidly behind him, he heaved a great sigh. "Looks like you were right, Mr. Crabtree. Eva Pearce is a wanted fugitive, and per the fact that her last confirmed crime occurred in Toronto with the menacing of that lady doctor, your precinct does have the right to pursue her."

"Well, that's splendid!" George exclaimed, clapping his hands together once. He was a little offset by his refusal to refer to him by a title, but didn't put much thought to it. "I'll need to speak to several of your officers in order to coordinate the search effort."

From behind him, he heard Emily clear her throat loudly. The look he was then dealt was an odd storm of reproach and mortification.

The other man's smile was forced as he answered, "That's just the ticket. I can't authorize your cooperation in this investigation unless I receive word from a higher up. The Prime Minister has yet to respond."

As eager as he was to shed responsibility, Kidwell obviously didn't take kindly to the meddling of men he found to be his lessers. Cutting a glance to the cuckoo clock mounted on the wall, George confirmed that it was almost nine in the evening on the sabbath day. With the added hour of time difference between them, and the non-critical nature of their search, it was safe to say that they wouldn't be hearing back until the morning.

The detective took his silence as acceptance and set the folder on the table facing Anechka. "A project for you. My counterpart in Toronto has some new-fangled way of transmitting photographs through the telegraph wires. A telefacsimile, if you will. We also have an officer taking diction on her file over the telephone."

She said nothing, but her displeasure at seeing the hundreds of paper pieces, all varying shades of gray, was palpable. "Have it done by the time I take my morning coffee. A photograph would help us pick this woman out of a crowd. Assuming we hear back from your superiors-"

"You will," Emily interrupted, with the faintest hint of a smirk on her lips.

"For your sake, I should certainly hope _so_ ," he retorted somewhat testily. "If that'll be all."

And then he was gone, slamming the door a bit louder the second time around.

There was a beat of silence, and then Emily muttered sardonically, "What a _pleasant_ man."

Her friend was sympathetic to their plight. "He's always been like this, as long as I've been here. I believe it has to do with the rising occurrence of crime in this city. The responsibility...it weighs on him."

A brief gust of wind was the only indication that George had crossed to her opposite side, retrieving his jacket from a peg in the wall. "I ought to be getting along. My boarders will wonder what's become of me."

It was true that in the few weeks he'd been in town, he'd scarcely returned after sundown. He was going to need a good night's rest in order to perform the next day, but he suspected that sleep would evade him once again.

"The last of the streetcars has probably left for the evening, and I would not recommend that you walk the way to Dutchtown at night, Mr. _Crabs-tree_ ," the artist warned, her lips pressed in a thin line of worry.

From where he stood, George could see a sliver of the storefront window that overlooked the precinct. The sun had set on the city, and the streetlamps did little to cast a passable glow on the sidewalk below. "What do you suggest I do then?" He didn't think Kidwell would take too kindly to an overnight visitor in his station, and he surely couldn't afford a night in one of the hotels that bordered the fairgrounds.

"Come back to the shop with me," Emily offered, "It's only a few blocks away. I know for a fact they've got an extra cot, and I'm sure Anechka's parents would love to meet you."

George was a reasonably intelligent man, so he could see clearly where this was going. The other woman's face was a mixture of exhaustion and mischief. He supposed there was some sort of unspoken language among women, because Emily's eyes were all atwinkle. It reminded him of happier times.

 _It reminded him of home._

-0-

The shop in question was a delicatessen situated between two larger buildings in a middle-class neighborhood east of Forest Park. It was plain to see that the area had been settled before the time of automobiles and telephones, for every other structure was a square plot of only one or two stories. Laundry lines hung between the taller buildings, and even at the lateness of the hour there were children playing on the fire escapes.

The Kapralov residence was four stories, but it made up for it with its narrow frame. George had to almost turn sideways to get through the door, and the entire width of the storefront could be traversed with a flying leap.

Initial impressions of the exterior set aside, he was greeted with a bear hug by the exceedingly enthusiastic patriarch, who was a full head shorter than he and twice as strong. If Emily hadn't intervened, he was sure that Pyotr would have lifted him off the ground.

Nataliya was the one to smooth things over by explaining, in broken English, that her husband had so looked forward to meeting a policeman that wasn't going to shake him down for blood money. Then, crinkling her nostrils at the acrid smell caused by the dried river water on them, had quickly offered to launder their clothes while they waited.

He soon found Emily on the roof of the building, seeking refuge from the oppressive heat that pervaded indoors, even with all of the windows open and the sheets drawn from the bed. She was leaning against the chimney looking towards the west, apparently deep in thought. As he approached, she snapped out of her reverie, and couldn't help but chuckle at the sight before her.

"He seems a good man. It's a pity his clothing doesn't fit me," George quickly parted the sheet that he'd clasped in front of him to reveal pants that were much too short and a shirt so voluminous that the wind could sweep him away were it to catch it at the right angle.

Dr. Grace was obviously at the advantage in a home she'd known for several months; her curls hung loose over her shoulders and she wore a starched white nightgown. Even before he got close, he could see that she was barefoot. To think that a few years ago he would have been overcome with embarrassment to see a woman in this state- _no_ , he respected Emily too much to see this as inappropriate in any way.

"Anechka and I usually sleep on the roof. It's very relaxing out here, don't you think?"

Somewhere on the street came the telltale sound of pots crashing together, followed by two people yelling. It occurred to him that this neighborhood was quite like the tenements where Edna had once lived, and the similarities are unsettling.

All of a sudden her eyes are on him, and the heat is rising to his cheeks. He doesn't know what to say or do, so he gets right to the point. "So what _are_ you two?"

If she doesn't like the question, the only initial indication is a twitch of an eyebrow. "I mean...do not get me wrong, she is a lovely girl...it would be fine if you _were_ , I was just curious…"

 _Good heavens._ At this point, he's so deep there's no more digging. To her credit, Emily doesn't immediately chastise his impertinence. But she does move several steps farther away, and the separation feels like an entire world between them.

"She is. Anechka is a good friend. A kind, _understanding_ one. Never the type to jump to conclusions," she declares, her tone impenetrably firm.

That's when he knows he's done it. His good intentions, however bumbling, had failed. She was moving back towards the ceiling hatch, so it was now or never. "Emily, I didn't mean it that way."

"Well, it sure sounded like it," she countered, and froze in her tracks.

They both remembered a time in the not so distant past when the shoe had been on the other foot. _A cold night, a misunderstanding, Leslie Garland._ And both knew they couldn't bear to repeat the pain of it all.

"I'm sorry," George says at the same time she blurts out, "I don't think we should-"

A look travels between them, and it's as if all of the tension has dissipated. She sits at the base of the chimney once again and beckons for him to join. "Do you know why I left London?"

He shakes his head to indicate the negative, sitting down at a respectable distance.

The roof has been reinforced with clapboard and gravel rock. She begins to trace patterns in the dust with her finger, lost in contemplation. "I was only there for three months before I bought a steamer passage back. Everything about England felt wrong-I was _supposed_ to be having the time of my life. I was _supposed_ to be sharing this experience with someone."

"No one blames you for mourning Lillian," he says softly, cautiously laying a hand on her arm. She's lightly perspiring, and he can feel her body heat through the gauzy fabric of her nightgown.

Dr. Grace winces and gestures with her free hand as if to say, _let me talk_. Then: "Everyone knew that the fair was to begin that spring, so I went chasing adventure. It was a welcome diversion. I worked odd jobs to supplement my savings; I was a counter girl downstairs. You've seen that I have made friends here. But St. Louis never felt like home."

Her hand seeks his and she bears down, squeezing it for dear life. "So where _is_ home?" He asks quietly.

To his surprise, she's dangerously close to tears, as evidenced by the bite marks she's wearing into her lip. "George, I didn't think I could come back after everything that happened. There were too many bad memories attached to Toronto. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you and Julia and the detective...all these people I thought I'd disappointed. Like it or not, I kept another life from the ones I was close to, and I can never take that back. What's to say if I return to my old job that people would still respect me-a presumed sapphist, a ne'er-do-well, a flighty woman?"

"I would," he vowed. "And since when has the great Emily Grace cared about what others think?" She laughs, her temporary good humor tainted with hiccups. Still he presses: "I'm serious! You're one of the smartest people I know, _and_ the kindest. You dealt with me when no one else would. You ate everything I put in front of you, and you once stabbed a zombie patient of a mental institution with a hatpin! Quite simply, you're _everything_."

Their eyes meet, and for a fleeting moment he fears she's going to bolt. But then she presses her forehead into the crook of his neck, her arms locking securely around his shoulders.

He reciprocates without hesitation, his hands resting on the small of her back. Her voice is slightly muffled when she admonishes: "You know what your problem is, George Crabtree? You're too good for me. I've been thinking about you for months and- _dear God!_ -I miss you."

"I missed you, too." Shifting a little to bring the sheet around the both of them, he plants a chaste kiss on her brow.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" She inquires as they settle down to watch the stars.

After a moment's consideration, wherein he weighed into account his hand curled around her waist and her breath tickling his ear, George whispered back, "No."

The slap on the wrist followed by raucous laughter were immediate.

 _(to be continued)_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Now we're rolling! The mystery is becoming a little clearer. Here we have references to 7x02 _Tour de Murdoch_. Remember that the Vandeventers (save for Henry Bergen, who is mostly historically accurate), the Troosts, and Charlotte are based on real people in prominent families, but certain characteristics have been changed for creative license. I would love to hear your theories as to who the murderer is and how this was all set up!

Boy, I can't wait to write this next chapter. Remember the second time we saw Eva in 7x13 _The Murdoch Sting_? Let's just say that Emily's ' _dolly-mop'_ alter ego comes back to play.

Also next time: Another grieving relation makes an appearance. A little party never killed nobody, right?

 **George and Emily Take St Louis**

 **Chapter Four**

George came to shortly after the break of dawn to a sudden loud noise.

After an hour or so or stargazing, during which Emily had stretched out so that her head lay on his chest, he'd said, "Well, I don't know about you, but I certainly didn't expect _this_ when I came on holiday…"

It's a silly thing to say, so she only responded with a half-hearted chuckle and settled further into him. A few minutes pass. As her breath began to slow down and even, his hands strayed to her hair. Absently, he began to stroke her brow while humming a tune under his breath. Much to his relief, she only sighs with content.

Some time later, he carefully extricated himself from the slumbering woman, wrapping the sheet around her and gathering it to create a makeshift pillow. Even though he knew she'd indulge him the opportunity to hold her until the sun rose, George didn't want to push his boundaries. Moving a few feet away, he settled down on the bare concrete and closed his eyes.

Upon waking, he found that a patchwork quilt had been draped across him, and his freshly laundered clothes were folded at his feet. The care with which Nataliya Kapralova had ensured his comfort was familiar-it reminded him of his aunts, whenever in childhood he'd fallen asleep on the chaise in the receiving room.

Rolling over, he soon located the source of the intrusive sound. Somehow with all the long-overdue conversation that had take place the night before, he neglected to recognize that the neighboring rooftop housed a chicken coop. The rooster had flown the short distance between buildings, and was presently heralding the dawn with a boisterous caw.

" _Quiet_ , you!" George hissed, cutting a glance to his friend sleeping nearby. The bird stopped in his trail of the eaves and seem to glare at him as if he'd committed some grave offense. "Shoo, go on, get out of here!" He whispered a little louder this time, punctuating his demand with a dismissive wave of the hand.

With the flap of his dappled wings, the rooster managed to propel his oversize body back over the gap and proceeded in the direction of the coop, presumably to check on his brood. The constable sat up, studying how the rising sun cast interesting shadows on the city below.

It was Sunday, and the fair would be closed. It was time to get to work.

-0-

Their investigation permit arrived by courier as they were taking their breakfast in the sitting room. By that time, the entire home was filled with all means of scrumptious smells, not limited to the baking of bread and curing of meats. The young man who delivered the message was spellbound by the opulence of the foyer; every open space on the wall was covered with Orthodox Christian iconography. Preening saints, their dreamy expressions illuminated by gilded halos, stared down at their guest from every angle. If it wasn't for the slightly unsettling nature of the display, there was no doubt he would have worn a divot in the carpet with how long he stood there.

Regardless of their conservative religious viewpoints, the Kapralov home was a happy place. Pyotr belted out folk songs as he worked in the storefront, only stopping occasionally to take a swig from the flask secured to his belt. His wife harbored quite the sharp wit, even if her jokes were so often lost to the language barrier. As they sipped on their _kasha_ porridge, chatting idly about _matryoshka_ and birds of happiness, George almost forgot about the task at hand.

"I don't think Anechka came home last night," Emily observed.

He nodded, remembering how long it had taken Henry and himself to complete the telefacsimile the first time. It was painstaking work, but wound up being essential to their investigation. "We ought to pay her a visit. Right after we telephone home, see after Dr. Haynes's autopsy, and-"

"Sift through the public archives?"

Many a constable was known to hate the task, for Detective Murdoch was often looking for the most commonplace combination of words, but George always found it calming. It was fascinating how the smallest foregone detail could crack a case wide open. "How well you know me," he marveled, and clinked his tea cup against hers.

-0-

Much to Detective Kidwell's chagrin, Anechka had chosen his interview room to construct the larger than life portrait of their suspect. When the two of them arrived, she was more than halfway done, gray and white slips of paper scattered about like a hurricane had ripped through the precinct. Her hair had fought its way out of her low chignon and her shoes were placed very neatly by the door.

"God bless you," she said as her friend handed her the paper bag filled with minced meat _pelmeni_ from home.

George rushed in soon after her, for he carried a stack of newspapers so high that he could scarcely see in front of him. He dropped them on the tabletop and almost toppled over, but caught his balance at the last minute. "They really ought to have a constable doing that," he commented, averting his eyes as Emily also removed her shoes and stockings.

She put up considerable resistance to calling it a day and returning home, knowing that her chances to earn respect from the men she worked for were few and far between. However, upon their insistence, she did pull up a chair to continue her work, filling in the empty space around Eva's shoulders.

The two of them took up positions on opposite sides of the table, the back issues of the _St. Louis Globe-Democrat_ and the _Post and Dispatch_ stacked up rather formidably. "We're looking for any mentions of Eva and her aliases; if we are to presume she's mingling with high society, she'll be mentioned somewhere. Also look for Celia Vandeventer and her immediate family. If they had any enemies, and the like."

"Mr. _Crabs-tree_ , they are among the wealthiest families in the city. They are bound to have dozens of adversaries," came the admonishment from Anechka, whose words were slurring more than usual with fatigue.

The top issue came down from the pile. "How unfortunate for us," Emily mumbled, and began to read.

Almost immediately, they found reference to the infamous Vandeventer Place. A photographer for the society pages had at long last been welcomed into the gated community north of the fairway. A recreation of the Arc de Triomphe gave way to a fountain and a prodigious reflection pool. Each home had been built in the latest architectural fashion, right down to bay windows and widow's walks. Automobiles lined the streets, partially obscuring the immaculately groomed lawns. In one view, a particularly well dressed couple were on the route of their morning constitutional, the man's hat tipped in greeting. It was the very image of unattainable wealth and opulence.

The next spread was a tour of "the magnificent dwelling atop the hill"-apparently belonging to one Henry Bergen Vandeventer, stockbroker. The woman of the house, Elizabeth, had been photographed among her garden, her gargantuan fascinator dwarfing her delicate features. Immediately following was a family portrait featuring her husband and two grown children. The caption underneath identified the adults, as well as Edward, twenty, and Celia, twenty-three.

In life, their victim had been undeniably beautiful, with bright eyes and a dewy complexion. Indeed, she was the only one smiling in the photograph. The article went on to say that the young woman was spoken for, and planned to wed the following year. Her fiancé was unnamed.

George made careful note of these findings and continued to read, taking in the description of Mr. Vandeventer's illustrious career in finance. He had two older brothers who were just as successful as he; altogether, they owned millions of acres across the continent and did not appear to care whose toes they stepped on in their pursuit of wealth. In short, narrowing down a potential motive for the killer was not looking good.

"Oh my goodness!" Emily exclaimed, slapping a palm down on the table. This caused him to nearly fall out of his seat, leaning over the see what she'd found.

Sheepishly she drew the newspaper away from his view. "They're exhibiting the baby incubators this month. _'See the mites of humanity whose lives are being preserved by this wonderful method.'_ Oh George, we should go! After we sort out this case, of course."

He smiled, for her enthusiasm for all things scientific was infectious. Silence descended over the room once more.

At some point Anechka excused herself to the washroom and returned, her corset draped over one arm. Now considerably more relaxed, she resumed her treatment of the telefacsimile.

From the opposite side of the door came a quiet knock. Dr. Haynes waited a moment and then entered, inundating the enclosed space with the noxious smell of formaldehyde and rubbing alcohol. He muttered his greetings to all those present; it appeared that he hadn't gotten much sleep either. "It is as you suspected, Dr. Grace. I noted bruising around the wrists, shoulders, and neck, as well as petechial hemorrhaging and blue coloring in the whites of Miss Vandeventer's eyes. A substantial amount of water was also drained from her lungs. Logically, it would follow that the poor girl's injuries were mostly sustained in an attempt to drown her."

The file folder changed hands. Emily studied her counterpart's neat penmanship with interest.

"There seems to be one aspect of my autopsy that isn't conclusive with our findings. I expected to uncover nothing in the young woman's toxicology report, save for perhaps traces of alcohol, but it appears that there were substantial amounts of methyl morphine in her stomach at the time of death."

"Isn't that what the promoter Chippy Blackburn used to drug his athletes?" George asked immediately, for he remembered the case of the untimely death of a professional cyclist. Although the cause of death had actually been a faulty blood transfusion, it had stuck in his mind.

Emily nodded, examining the rap sheet. "Codeine is a very powerful opioid. Miss Vandeventer would have been confused and drowsy, and likely would have been unable to walk straight."

"Perhaps passersby thought her to be intoxicated," Anechka surmised, for she wouldn't have given a second thought to a tipsy socialite being led by her friends.

Knitting his fingers together and placing them behind his head, George said, "Yet the technician at the Magic Whirlpool testified that he didn't see her enter the ride. There's no possible way she could have crossed the street on her own, let alone navigated the waterfalls."

It was all very confusing; Dr. Haynes was grateful that his job description stopped short of the actual investigation. Medicine was far easier to understand than the inner workings of human motivation. "I will telephone if I find anything else, though I doubt there will be time. I relinquish possession of the body this afternoon."

"That quickly?" Emily was surprised, for it had been common for corpses to stay in her freezer for weeks at a time before someone came around to claim them.

He stopped with his handle on the doorknob, and turned back to address her. "Of course. Didn't you know that the family has already given their statements?"

Indeed they did not.

Irrespective to Detective Kidwell's discretion, the search continued. Eventually Emily folded over a page of the _Globe-Democrat_ and slid it across the table. "Is this the woman you saw by the ostrich exhibition?"

Certainly he hadn't been expecting a woman of such beauty to be of common stock, but her lineage was exceptional. Miss Charlotte Cartier, pictured in the magazine aged sixteen, was a Montréalaise grandniece of the renowned French jewelers. At the time, she had been visiting extended family in St. Louis and seized the opportunity to make her debut in the debutante circuit.

"That was in 1898," Emily confirmed, making a doggy ear of the page for further examination. "What I wouldn't _give_ for a pendant or ring from their atelier…"

"Wherever would you wear it?" Came the dubious inquiry from her friend, who was incredibly close to completing the telefacsimile.

She sighed, removing another magazine from the top of the stack. "Oh, here, there and everywhere."

George suddenly had the mental image of the doctor otherwise engaged in the morgue, bulbous diamond earrings swinging over her latest charge. How was it that she was able to make him laugh, even in the most dire of situations?

The headline of the next issue of the _Post and Dispatch_ heralded a new executive action by the city council. Although such matters seldom interested the constable, he found himself absorbed in their plans to expand the suburbs north, creating a gleaming metropolis all the way to the Missouri River. A map touted the proposed route of construction, which fortuitously cut right through the eastern end of Vandeventer Place.

The door opened to admit a fairly frazzled looking Kidwell, which now that it bore more consideration seemed to be his natural state. Anechka immediately sat back and tilted her head towards the image she'd spent more than twelve hours constructing.

If she was expecting praise, he wasn't willing to dole it out. "We'll get a photographer in here once you've finished it."

 _So much for that._ She vacated her chair and allowed the detective to sit, which he quickly did. The constable took the opportunity to explain everything they'd discovered so far, lest their leader believe they were here for a bit of leisure reading. He took it all in with a prescient smirk on his face, taking sips from his cup of coffee.

"Now that we've confirmed the identity of one of the mystery women, perhaps it would be to our advantage if you told us about your interview with the Vandeventers," Emily said loudly, cutting a glance towards George.

The tension in the interview room was palpable, but Kidwell wasn't about to be intimidated. "Yes, they had me over for breakfast. Lovely couple. Devastated over the loss of their daughter. You're out of luck, though. They don't know anyone by the name of Eva Murdoch."

"Did you show them my sketch?" Anechka pressed.

He froze, as if that had slipped his mind in the heat of his canoodling with the privileged class. "Never you mind," he countered, laying another folder onto the table. "I've got a job for the two of you."

The detective went on to explain that the Vandeventers were hosting an extravagant dinner party in their home that night as a way of fundraising for Washington University, where their son attended school. It seemed odd to George that they would go ahead with the event even after the untimely death of their child, but he couldn't pretend to understand the behavior of the idle rich.

"If this woman is as hungry for the finer things as your records say, she will not be able to resist. Get as close as you can to Miss Pearce without making yourselves known. Once she knows the Metropolitan Police are on her trail, she will undoubtedly bolt. Find out where she and the other girls are staying. Once Celia Vandeventer is in the ground, we will round them up for questioning."

Now this was quite telling. It made Emily wonder just how much control the residents of Vandeventer Place had on the inner workings of the city, and how long this precinct had relied on their patronage. Furthermore, it was clear that Detective Kidwell didn't trust their ability to apprehend the suspects without much fanfare.

He opened the folder to reveal a full-length portrait of a man and woman. Even from across the table, Emily could see that the gentleman bore more than a passing resemblance to George, facial hair notwithstanding. His wife was a pretty blonde with an anachronistically dour expression. "This is Mr. Otto Troost and his wife Lorraine. They're Kansas City stock, but unfortunately for them, their train made an unscheduled stop in Jefferson City and they will be unable to attend this evening."

There was no doubt they'd had a hand in this. Two envelopes were passed to either side, each bearing their names in elegant script. "We've falsified their invitations on similar stationery. Report back to my office in the morning with your findings." And with that he stood, moving towards the door.

Even though she'd gone undercover before, Emily knew that this was exceedingly dangerous. She was nervous, and when she glanced up, George's stricken expression told her that he was as well.

"Oh, and Miss Grace?" He added as an afterthought, propping the door open with his foot.

"Yes, _Mr_. Kidwell?"

The tips of his mustache twitched, but he didn't address her impertinence. "Lorraine is French."

 _(to be continued)_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks for the support! I started to write the party scene, and it was so tremendously long that I've elected to split it into two parts. Please excuse my very poor French. Also note that Mr. Hampton's rank is a falsified position at a real university.

I know what you're all thinking: Wow, is Skye _really_ going with the two-people-pretending-to-be-married trope? In short...the answer is yes. Because I no longer have any shame. :) And it won't last for too much longer anyhow.

Next time: Tenacity has a name, and that name is Eva Pearce. The party continues. Also, a chance encounter in the garden.

 **George and Emily Take St Louis**

 **Chapter Five**

"George, could you help me with this?" The plaintive request came from the direction of the washroom, just as he was struggling to secure his waistcoat.

It had been difficult to find a clothing store open on a Sunday, let alone one that would allow them to borrow their finest designs for an evening. They'd had to make jest at the fact that the train station had apparently lost their luggage, leaving their well-to-do alter egos with nothing other than their traveling clothes. The clerk wouldn't want to have them embarrassed in front of their old badminton partners, _would he_?

Because there were still several hours until the event in question, he had entertained Emily's desire to pore over every display, the expensive silks and laces falling between her fingers like so much water. She and the lady attendant disappeared behind the screen more than half a dozen times, each gown more stunning than the last. The girls laughed like old friends as they handled wraps and stoles in every luxuriant hue. When it was at all over, George felt a little better about handing over the fifty dollar deposit, even if it was almost every penny he had brought with him on holiday.

His own suit was a tapered gray pinstripe in a rich wool. Even as he stood in the dimmed lights of their hotel room, he felt stuffy and ill at ease. The shoes were too stiff; the bow tie constricted his breathing. _How on earth did these rich society types dress like this, day in and day out?_

He abandoned his post in front of the armoire and went in search of Emily. Presently she stood before the full length mirror in naught but her stockings and bustier. With two fingers she held the back of her corset closed, the strings dangling around her knees. Mrs. Kidwell's finest jewels hung from around her neck and ears; special care had been taken to her makeup. For a fleeting moment, he almost forgot to breathe.

Steeling his expression, George bent to his task, gently threading the stays through the closures. Somewhere around the middle of her back his finger slipped through an opening and made contact with her bare back. It took everything within him not to study the gooseflesh rippling down her arms.

Emily sighed deeply and arched her back once the deed was done, stretching this way and that. "Thank you. Back at the boarding house, the single women would often help each other dress. But seeing as we're alone…"

The scent of her perfume, with notes of rose and gardenia, was simply intoxicating. During their courtship, how could he _not_ have mentioned that it was his favorite? Smiling tersely, he reached for the garment bag that had been slung over the door.

Her gown had been sown in the palest shade of mint, and embroidered with tiers of lace and river pearls. It was actually quite heavy, and Emily found herself having to step into it rather than bring it over her head. She only relinquished hold of George's arms to slide her hands through the voluminous bell sleeves, then tightened her grip to move into her high heeled shoes.

Their posture presently mimicked novice ballroom dancers about to take their first step. At her companion's moon-eyed expression, she said, "Penny for your thoughts."

"You look lovely," he confessed, not hesitating for a second.

"And you are very handsome, my dear Otto." She reached behind him and retrieved the _piéce de résistance_ , a blonde wig held together by countless bobby pins. Placing it on his head, she swept past him into the bedroom, leaving a very amused George in her wake.

-0-

Rather than renting a carriage and risk bankrupting them entirely, the two covert operatives commenced a stroll in the direction of Vandeventer Place. The sun was only just beginning to set, yet the sweltering heat of midday clung on to the city with two fists. More than once, George had to fight the urge to scratch at his false beard, which was creating a rather uncomfortable line of perspiration along his hairline. The top hat and satin gloves did little to help his situation, but he suspected Emily was in a far worse predicament.

The difference in the atmosphere between the inner city and the suburbs was staggering; everyone seemed to have somewhere important to be, and carried themselves as if they were floating on a column of air. He soon got into the role, swinging his cane from side to side and tipping his cap to everyone who passed. Emily followed each of these greetings with a brief _bonsoir_. Somewhere between their lodgings and the lush gardens of the gated community, she'd adopted a sultry sway to her walk, bumping his hip with almost every step. It brought to mind a character she played in one of Murdoch's schemes to apprehend Eva Pearce the first time, a Parisian lady of the night. A snafu in the sting had caused her to kiss Leslie, leading to their subsequent parting of ways. It made quite the attractive picture, but carried with it plenty of unpleasant memories.

"Must you do that?" He asked under his breath as they joined the throng of well-dressed couples on the main thoroughfare.

Fluttering her eyelashes and tittering behind her fan, she hissed back in her natural accent: "Just be glad you have a prize on your arm this evening, George."

He had to swallow his indignation at once, for they'd reached a receiving line of sorts. There seemed to be only one way in and out of the home, and that was through the lady standing at the front door. All around them, men and women greeted one another, congratulating their peers on new accomplishments and acquisitions. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice the two of them standing in silence.

At last they reached the threshold, and their forged invitations passed hands. The woman of the house, who appeared a decade older than she had in the society pages, covertly sneaked a peek at the address line before exclaiming shrilly, "My dear Madame Troost!"

"Elizabeth!" She returned the salutation, kissing her host twice on the left cheek and once on the right. "I was devastated, simply _devastated_ , to hear about your daughter. She was gorgeous, _une petite chéri_. We shall miss her company on the yacht this summer."

It was a broad generalization; the details of her daughter's social life most likely paled in importance to Mrs. Vandeventer's own, at least as far as she was concerned, so Elizabeth accepted it. "Thank you. We all know that Celia loved a good party, so we will endeavor to go on without her. We're serving up her favorite little desserts as _hors d'oeuvres_. Surely you recall the _poire belle Hélène_ from that little _patisserie_ uptown-"

"Darling, how could I forget?"

The ladies continued to chat on little details, while George craned his neck to see over her shoulder. A glittering chandelier made from teardrop glass illuminated the foyer leading up to the grand staircase, which was guarded on either side by massive tapestries. He began to scan the faces of the people milling about, wondering if Miss Pearce would soon reveal herself-

Another man appeared seemingly out of nowhere, touting a tumbler of liquor. His eyes lighting up with recognition, he called out, "Otto, my good man!"

The resemblance to the deceased was plain enough to see, so George greeted Henry Bergen with little hesitance. As they shook hands, he decided that the only thing that betrayed the age of the banker was the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. These were not the mark of undue stress, but of jubilance, and so he immediately felt at ease.

"How _splendid_ to see you! I feel as if we haven't been under the same roof since-"

Fortunately, Emily jumped in before he could give himself away. "Our last vacation! Beautiful country up there, wouldn't you say?"

Eyebrows rising into his hairline, Henry Bergen took in the exquisite countenance of his friend's wife anew. "I would be inclined to agree. Now, don't think I've forgotten about your Missus."

" _Enchanté_ ," she said, and allowed him to kiss her gloved hand.

Irrationally, George felt a surge of jealousy that he immediately shoved back down. "My friend, how's business?"

Just then, Elizabeth seemed to realize her husband was standing next to her and leaned into him, beaming up at her breadwinner with sheer pride in her gaze. "Just fantastic, and it's about to get a lot better. And you?"

He glanced at Emily for support, but was only met with a beguiling wide-eyed waifish look. Clearly, her talent for imitation were unparalleled. Drawing from her skills at reading the behavior of these people, George decided to flatter the man of the house. "Truthfully, I couldn't ask for better. I just wrapped up a land deal of my own. You ought to be reading about it soon in the papers."

"I thought you were a lawyer," Mr. Vandeventer confessed, a little perplexed.

"Everyone needs a hobby," Emily cut in, hooking her arm around his elbow. "If you'll excuse us, I think we're going to have a spot of champagne."

As soon as they were out of earshot, the doctor murmured, "That was close." She liberated a crystal flute from a passing waiter and downed the contents in one gulp. "Let us try and avoid unnecessary conversation, yes?"

George nodded his assent, taking a moment to study his surroundings. The party spread to either side of the cavernous walkway, spilling into the sitting room and dining hall. Even though the electric lights were on to full brightness, an array of fragrant candles were spread out upon every available surface. Every visible window had been thrown open to the fresh evening air, sending trails of silken drapes floating into the room. Waitstaff strolled among the little clusters of socialites, offering the wares of the kitchen. Somewhere, a band was playing.

Following the source of the noise, they soon discovered that the dining area had been converted into a dance hall, complete with a full orchestra. Several tables dressed in velvet stood against the wall, laden with foodstuffs. It occurred to George that this was not a traditional dinner party.

"Perhaps we ought to divide and conquer," Emily suggested, though she did not relinquish hold of his arm. Vigorously, he shook his head. Suddenly he felt very out of his element and quite intimidated.

Craning his neck, he spotted a familiar face conversing at the opposite side of the room. "Care to dance, my love?" He asked, holding out his hand.

She tried her best to ignore the little jolts of electricity that shot up her arm when they touched. George maneuvered them hastily out into the middle of the floor, and then brought her close, so close that her breast touched the lapels of his suit. "Miss Cartier is in attendance."

"Really? Who is she speaking to?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," he whispered back, leading her in tandem with the other dancers. Truthfully, he hadn't waltzed since the Policeman's Ball at the turn of the century, but this learning curve was incredibly steep.

Emily tucked her chin into the crook of his neck and encouraged: "Get me closer."

So he complied, striving his mightiest not to trip over his own two feet. By their second circuit around the room, she had a fairly reliable description. "Fair little thing, shorter than I, green or blue eyes with a birthmark on her cheek that she's trying to cover with rouge."

His grip tightened on her hand. "That's her. That's the other woman who-"

Their dance came to a jolting halt as Emily collided with someone on her back step. By that time, they were dangerously close to the buffet table, and their victim turned to whale on them.

"Oh, Monsieur Vandeventer!" She cried at once, releasing her hold on her dance partner. Striving to make amends, she helped the young heir right himself. "I do apologize. My husband and I have been traveling all day, you see, and those bumpy train rides do a number on my balance-"

Edward was a spitting image of his father, cutting quite an imposing figure in his velvet smoking suit. He toted his Manhattan cocktail by the stem and carried himself as a man much older than his twenty-one years. The portrait in the papers last year had done him quite the justice. Giving his guest a curt closed-mouth smile, he assuaged her concerns: "It's quite alright, Mrs…?"

"Otto Troost of Kansas City. This is my wife, Lorraine," George cut in for once, shaking his hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, he realized that Emily's wig had been knocked to one side with the impact. The slightest widening of his eyes was all the suggestion she needed, and disguised the adjustment with a cough.

"Ah. You're an old hunting partner of my father's, are you not?"

 _Just how old did Edward think he was?_ Taking the slight indignity in stride, he was about to confirm this when the young man was called away. From the adjoining room came the sound of a woman tapping her fork against a wine glass.

The crowd assembled at the foot of the staircase without much prompting. The band continued to play, adding pleasant ambiance to Mrs. Elizabeth Vandeventer's announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of my husband, I would like to thank each and every one of you for attending tonight. I'm sure you have heard by now that a tragic accident has befallen my daughter Celia. She was my pride and joy, my first child, and will be missed dearly."

The lack of emotion in her voice was stunning, while the silence in the room was deafening. Still, she pressed on: "Her funeral will be held at an undisclosed location in the following days and will be attended by family only. I do so hope everyone understands. In lieu of flowers, I'm sure Celia would agree that your money is best spent towards supporting tonight's fundraiser. Thank you."

Polite claps came from all around as the woman stepped down, trading places with her manservant. Clearing his throat, the butler waited for the acknowledgement to die down before introducing the guests of honor.

"Presenting the Vice Chancellor for Finance and Collegiate Development at Washington University, Mr. Arthur Hampton."

From one end of the upstairs corridor emerged a gentleman in his mid to late forties, a cigar dangling from his fingers. His very countenance reminded George of a hawk, all trim build and hooked nose. As he reached the banister, he spread his arms out in greeting. "Welcome, one and all. It is my privilege to preside over this event, which is held annually in the home of one of our students. I'm sure many of you know Edward Vandeventer, who is on his way to earning his letters in business studies. He is a full supporter of the university's aim to make The Pike a permanent exhibition for the benefit of the community."

Quiet chatter rose up from the crowd and was swiftly hushed. "Your patronage can only make Washington University a better place to learn and thrive. Attendants will be stationed at all exits at the close of the evening to accept your donations. Please give generously. We shall look forward to welcoming all of you at the opening ceremonies of the Summer Olympics next Monday. Once again, thank you."

With that, the man descended the staircase, coming to shake hands with his hosts. The servant stepped up once more, declaring in his booming voice, "Introducing Mr. Edward Vandeventer and his fiancee, Miss Evelyn Astor."

By the time their suspect made her grand entrance on the arm of her newest prey, Emily's grip was so tight on his arm that he began to lose circulation. To her credit, Eva remained perfectly composed, dressed more opulently than ever before. Looking out to the crowd, she smiled. Waved.

George was beginning to think he would need a stiff drink.

 _(to be continued)_


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Now the mystery begins to deepen. Reading over this, I realize how much this chapter reminds me of a sitcom. Gratuitous tropes within.

Next time: Who is this mysterious fiancé?

 **George and Emily Take St Louis**

 **Chapter Six**

"I think I'm going to be sick," Emily mumbled, just barely managing to hold onto her French accent. A queer mixture of hatred and revulsion caused her stomach to turn, for she knew fully of what their suspect was capable.

As much as they loathed to admit it, Eva was resplendent in her ivory gown, touting enough jewels to put a small African nation out of the export business. Her fiancé made eye contact with her and she held it, looking upon him with false adoration. Together they made their way down the staircase to polite applause.

George wondered if his false beard was enough to disguise his identity from the eagle-eyed con artist. When the crowd parted to admit the happy couple into the throng, he turned away, bringing Emily into his side. She responded by latching onto his waist with one hand, leading them both back into the dining hall. "Say what you want, she's got a routine," he whispered barely in audible range.

The band struck up a lively foxtrot; Eva adapted to the complex dance as if she'd been born to do so, allowing Edward to guide her across the floor. Entirely dumbfounded by what had happened in the past few moments, they began to plot their next move.

"We've got to split up," George realized, a little too loudly. A few people glanced in their direction, wondering if they were about to witness something they'd read about in the society pages tomorrow. "Go see your friends, my dear. The men are going to talk business."

Emily glanced over her shoulder to where the patriarch stood with his friends, taking elongated swigs from his highball. Across the room Miss Cartier stood with the unnamed woman, looking on with envy at the dancing couples. As frightened as they were that they could be devoured whole by these scheming idle rich, it had to be done. "Yes, _mon amour_."

The girls sized her up as she approached, perhaps trying to discern her lineage and worth. When at last she was close enough to speak without shouting, she spread her arms out wide and cried, "Charlotte! It's been too long!"

They embraced, kissing one another's cheeks in the European fashion. "Forgive me-although you _do_ look familiar, I simply cannot remember your name."

"Lorraine Troost. We attended finishing school together in Montreal." It was a safe bet, as the heiress's accent was only slightly less noticeable than her false one.

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "And _how_ old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

Emily studied her counterpart's dewy complexion and mature style of dress. It was going to be a shot in the dark. "Twenty-six." _When all else failed_ , she thought, _give your real age._

This seemed to satisfy Charlotte, who retrieved a flute of champagne from the table behind her and passed it to her. "You must have graduated the year before me. I noticed you over there with that gentleman; perhaps I recall you by your maiden name. Anyhow, I would like to introduce my dear friend, Marjorie Rockefeller."

"Of the New York Rockefellers? What brings you to the midwest?" She was genuinely impressed.

The girl was slight in build compared to the statuesque Charlotte, but her voice was loud and firm. "Look around. All the young start-ups come here. What a great place to find a husband!"

It took everything within her not to visibly cringe. Emily wanted to grab the girl by the shoulders and shake her hard, tell her that there was more to life than marrying, having a few children, and acquiring wealth. Even George's comment when he knew everyone was watching-as if women _couldn't_ enjoy discussing business! _Perish the thought!_

"Marjorie is attracted to new money," her friend confided, not even flinching as she was slapped on the wrist with a fan.

The song the band was playing concluded, and the recently engaged couple went their separate ways. Edward joined a small circle of men near the buffet, including George, while Eva made a beeline for her girlfriends. "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes." Miss Rockefeller said under her breath.

Fighting the urge to down her second drink in one gulp, Emily assured her, "I suppose there's nothing wrong with not wanting a husband old enough to be your grandfather."

"Some of us aren't lucky enough to have our choice," Charlotte cut a glance to George, a lecherous glint in her eye.

Dr. Grace found herself having to restrain a burst of anger at this. Fortunately, she had little time to consider why this might be the case. "I told Elizabeth a million times that I wanted roses on the centerpieces, _not_ carnations," Eva griped, accepting the proffered drink.

"They look lovely," Emily affirmed, not making eye contact.

It wasn't long until the former shop girl showed her true colors. Turning in this direction, she ground out, "Do I _know_ you?"

"Evelyn, this is Mrs. Troost. We were just having a lovely little chat about marriage and family," Charlotte cut in, ever the peacemaker.

Smiling as if this had suddenly reminded her she was to be wed, Eva's hand strayed to her collar, engagement ring on display. "The two of you are so lucky," sighed Marjorie, the youngest by several years, "If I'm not married by the time I'm Lorraine's age, I might as well become an old maid."

Something about this rubbed Emily the wrong way. Surely she had plenty of opportunities to marry; the problem was she wasn't willing to surrender her independence to just any man. Ideally, she wouldn't _have_ to.

"Hush. I'm sure you'll find someone before the witching hour. Now, I would like to propose a toast." Charlotte raised her glass, and the other girls mimicked her gesture. "To the best days of our lives."

"Here, here," Eva echoed, and locked eyes with each of them.

-0-

"Now tell me, old man, how is it that you came to have such a lovely young woman engaged to your son?" George asked once the laughter had settled.

For the duration of the conversation, he'd been on the fringes of the group, but with the appearance of Edward, he managed to elbow his way into the center of the circle. "Well, that's no secret," one of the other men teased, reaching behind him to refill his tumbler of bourbon.

"Kansas City is a mite off the beaten path," he admitted, taking another sip of the vile strong liquor he'd been offered.

Henry Bergen looked at his son, who only shook his head and smiled. Taking this to be permission of some kind, he began: "It's the queerest thing. I found her on the streets of Toronto while I was there on business. She'd just been robbed and needed passage back to the states. Those crooks took everything from her, even her luggage. But bless her soul, she is so forgiving that she didn't want to press charges or even go to the police. It would be a fanfare in the press, you see. The Astors are a classy set."

"That they are," Vice Chancellor Hampton said. "And I know she's only been in town for a few months, but Evelyn is a pillar of the community. She's a special champion of our cause."

"I suppose she ought to be. Her husband is going to be the finest businessman in the city." George went in the route of flattery, and it paid off. Edward reached across the circle to shake his hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Emily en route to the sitting room with their suspects, her arm looped companionably around Miss Cartier's elbow. She appeared so at ease that he knew there was no cause to worry.

"I do hope you'll be in attendance at the wedding. We can talk about old times," Henry Bergen declared.

Nodding, he replied, "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

-0-

"If I have to look at that engagement ring once more, I swear to you I shall scream," Marjorie vowed once the doors of the powder room had closed behind them.

Over the course of the past hour, Emily had better gotten to know the women they suspected of murdering Celia Vandeventer. Charlotte had her wits about her and could have masterminded the attack, while young Miss Rockefeller seemed a little daft. Neither cared for anything but marrying a wealthy men and continuing their lifestyle.

This conclusion was a difficult one to come to, for Emily was in the practice of seeing the best in people. But there was no way around it: they were spiteful, idle, and their conversations were vapid at best. Key talking points seemed to be limited to others and their prospective wrongdoings. If there was one thing Emily _detested_ , both in Canada and America, it was girls who did nothing but gossip.

"She should know better than to boast," she contributed, because at least that was true. While the heiresses gathered before the mirrors, Emily sat in one of the many armchairs. They were the only people in there at the time, so she thought the way her skirt's hem rose up to reveal her stockings could be excused. Clandestinely, she slipped off her heels and kneaded her toes into the plush carpeting.

"I bet she's only an Astor by marriage, considering how she wears her jewels like they're going out of style," Charlotte said, her voice slightly muffled as she reapplied her lipstick. "And I don't buy that she's not taking advantage of Elizabeth's charity by staying in the guest house."

Marjorie removed her fascinator to massage her scalp, but couldn't resist getting the last word in. "Isn't her bedroom window right across from Edward's? At least we know how she got the man." She then proceeded to mime removing her bodice, much to her friend's amusement.

"After all we've done for her, too," Miss Cartier groused. She was about to add something else, but was reminded of the third party present as she caught Emily's reflection in the mirror.

The other woman wasn't so keen on taking hints. "The _least_ she could have done is invite us to the funeral. We knew Celia better than-"

The door crashed open with force at that moment, interrupting Marjorie's complaints. Eva swept in with an air of self-importance. "I beg your pardon, ladies. The mayor's wife caught my eye and simply wouldn't stop prattling _on and on_ about the most inane details."

"We understand, don't we, Lorraine?" Charlotte's smile was saccharinely sweet, as if nothing that happened in her absence.

Emily nodded quietly, and an uneasy silence descended over the room. Finally, Eva spoke: "Girls, would you mind getting us some more champagne?"

A little confused, but not wanting to defy her wishes, Charlotte and Marjorie left the room. Now that it was just the two of them, Eva proceeded to the mirror and set to fixing her hair.

Of course, her eyes didn't stay focused on the task at hand; Emily could feel her gaze, pernicious and vindictive. It made her so uncomfortable that she stood, moving towards the door.

"I _do_ know you," Eva concluded, "You're that French whore from the station house."

She muttered a quick _I don't know what you're talking about_ , but Miss Pearce was quicker, latching onto her shoulder and wrenching backwards. "You're working for them, aren't you?"

Emily should have known better than to respond in the way she did. She should have just continued on the charade of a doctor pretending to be a prostitute pretending to be a woman on means. However, she was so filled with abhorrence for the woman standing before her that she beared down under her grasp, coming to within a few inches of her. "Oh, sweetheart. I _am_ one of them."

A small smile spread across Eva's face, like a jungle cat who knew it would soon devour its prey. "It's a pity you can't pin anything on me. Enjoy the party."

When the two other women returned to the powder room toting four glasses of champagne, they were utterly bewildered to find it empty.

-0-

She found George immediately, carousing with the other men, and demanded that he follow her.

"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen," he said, bowing out with a chorus of well wishes.

They found a far corner of the dining hall that was almost deserted and slipped into the corridor. There were still a few revelers nearby, so they entered the garden by way of a sliding glass door.

The night was clear and humid. A winding cobblestone path lead them out of earshot of the party, where Emily told him all she had seen and heard.

"We've got to act now. Perhaps we should inform Mr. and Mrs. Vandeventer," he suggested, his head spinning from all this new information.

She scoffed, throwing her gloved hands into the air. "Right. Who are they going to trust, the woman that's going to marry their son or two Canadian enforcers who crashed their party, out of their jurisdiction and under false names? Face it, George, we've got to do this the old fashioned way."

A brief scratching noise alerted them that someone else was entering the garden. Looking for a place to hide and only immediately seeing beds of gardenias and tulips, Emily pushed her companion behind a moderately tall shrubbery.

Unprepared for the force with which he was struck in the chest, George yelped and fell backwards into the manicured lawn with her on top of him, the dense foliage from the shrub obscuring them from overhead view. If anything, just their feet would be sticking out. Taken aback by this sudden turn of events, the two observed one another in stunned silence as they caught the wind that had been knocked out of them. Finally Emily acted, closing the space between their lips with a searing kiss.

It was more to keep him quiet than anything else. From her vantage point, she could see two pairs of men's shoes standing on the path. If they were caught trespassing, it was better to be seen as lovers amid a tryst than have their motives questioned. But once they shared the same space, their breath intermingled, Emily was struck by just how much she'd missed _this_.

And to his credit, he kissed her back, his hands securely on either side of her waist. They remained in that position for one eternal, heavenly moment, then break apart. Before he could say anything, she clasped a hand over his mouth and listened to the conversation taking place above.

"You've got some nerve, coming to my home in the midst of a celebration." The first voice was gruff, authoritative. _Familiar_.

There was a rustling of papers. "I need the hundred grand by the end of the month. We can set up a payment plan, or you can begin to liquidate your assets. With your brother insolvent, it's the best thing you can do."

"Don't presume to know what is best for _my_ family," he responded angrily, and the papers were thrown on the ground. "You'll be leaving now."

"Mr. Vandeventer, I was simply-"

"Get out, or you will be removed."

Henry Bergen waited for the other man to leave before retrieving the court documents. His hand came within a few inches of George's leg, and both held their breath. At last the businessman righted himself and returned to the house, cursing all the way.

Neither could believe what they had just heard. After checking to make sure the coast was clear, Emily crawled off her companion and stood, making sure her wig was still intact. George followed soon after, more than a little red in the face. "Wow, that was _some_ -"

"I was just maintaining our cover," she interrupted plaintively, trying not to respond physically as he set to removing leaves from her skirt. "That's all."

 _Heaven help her_ ; he's about to make some sort of smart response, she can tell, when they are interrupted again. This time, he takes her hand and leads her behind the massive trunk of a weeping willow.

From where they stand, he can only discern Eva's form for sure. She's on the arm of a tall, skinny man, and for the moment he doesn't question it. The two of them are whispering about something, but it's just out of earshot. Carefully, they follow them along the path until they reach a sprawling apartment with a facade of stones.

"It's a pity about Celia," Eva said, without a trace of emotion.

The man makes a contemplative noise in the back of his throat, his hand poised above the doorknob. "Indeed."

"I hope you can understand my position on the matter," she pressed, stepping into the space off limits by decorum.

And suddenly there she was, the temptress, the master manipulator. He can't refuse her whims. "You've made it abundantly clear."

"Excellent." She disappeared into the guest house, leaving her complement outside. After a few minutes of waiting, the man exhaled raggedly and turned in profile. With the aid of the moonlight, they could now make out the features of Vice Chancellor Hampton.

Moments later she returned holding a small box. It changed hands, and that was all she wrote. Together the two proceeded back down the path in the way they came. "I pray I'm the one to get her pearls," Eva mused. Perhaps she realized how selfish this sounded, for she followed it up with: "Give Jonathan my regards. I simply cannot imagine losing a fiance in such a way. How _unsettling_ the office must feel."

Just before they rounded the corner out of earshot, Arthur said, "He's one of the best clerks I've ever had. Be assured he'll get over it."

Neither George nor Emily moved for a long time following this bombshell. At last she concluded, "We've got to go to the university first thing in the morning."

He didn't have to say anything; she knew he agreed. The two then doubled back to the party, their hands still clasped together in solidarity of what was to come.

 _(to be continued)_


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I didn't think it would take this long to get to the action, but here we are! We're just getting into the nitty-gritty. I did tour Washington University a few years back when I was looking at colleges, so I have an approximate knowledge of the campus (including University Hall, now called Brookings Hall, featured here). By the way...no implied Dr. Pepper sponsorship here (I'm laughing just typing this sentence), mostly due to the fact that I hate it as much as Emily does!

Next time: a shocking discovery, and the interrogation to end all interrogations.

 **George and Emily Take St Louis**

 **Chapter Seven**

"We don't have _time_ for this," George insisted from the washroom. Just out of the corner of his eye, Emily sighed deeply and rolled over, squinting into the light streaming through the drapes.

They had returned back to their room shortly after three in the morning and risen with the dawn, allowing for a very fitful sleep indeed. In their haste to prepare for the dinner party, they hadn't payed much attention to the fact that the room only had one bed, a luxurious king that she had immediately claimed as her own. So as to preserve modesty, George settled into the chaise at the opposite end of the room, only to be met with _don't be silly_ and _I know you won't try anything_ and _how are we supposed to discuss the case when you're all the way over there_. As it turns out, he dozed off just as soon as his head touched the pillow, laying about as far apart from his companion as humanly possible.

Some time later, Emily slid out of bed, only to return moments later divested of their borrowed finery. The wig had compressed her hair, making her curls stick out at odd angles. This struck the constable as charming, and he had drowsily reached out to wrap a ringlet around his finger. She only smiled and rolled towards him.

He was the first to come to, stumbling into the adjoining room to perform his morning ablutions. George had slept in his trousers and dress shirt, which was sure to cause a fuss when he attempted to get their deposit back. The gown was hanging from the top of the door like the afternoon before-so what was Emily wearing?

He discovered the answer upon attempting to dress. The lightweight cotton shirt, the one he'd so often worn underneath his uniform, was nowhere to be found. _Could it be?_ Peeking around the corner and examining the figure of the drowsing woman in bed, his suspicions were confirmed.

It wouldn't have done any good to become cross- _no_ , that was the furthest thing from what George was thinking. Standing at the bedside with two garment bags slung over his shoulder, he said, "I need you to telephone Detective Kidwell and tell him we'll be making a few stops before coming by the precinct. Tip the maid when she comes in, and make sure nothing incriminating is lying about." According to plan, they would keep the room just in case Mr. and Mrs. Troost needed to make an appearance at another society event. Besides, it was on the dime of the Metropolitan Police.

The only response he was given was a sleepy yawn. Gently shaking her shoulder, he demanded, "Emily, look at me."

At last her eyes came open to behold the shirtless man standing before her. Smirking mischievously, she mumbled, "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to return these clothes to the department store-"

" _Mhmm_."

"-get breakfast-"

" _Mhmm_."

"-and stop by the home of my boarders. They probably think I'm dead," he concluded, thinking about how he hadn't returned home in the past two nights.

" _Mhmm_."

"And Emily?"

"Yes, darling?"

Was she _trying_ to rile him up? "I'll be needing my shirt."

There was a pause. Emily rustled around underneath the covers, pulling it over her head and tossing it in his face. Immediately, she pulled the blanket up to her shoulders- _her bare, beautiful shoulders_ -and crossed her arms expectantly.

He dressed quickly, trying to ignore the fact that there was a nude or semi-nude woman just inches away. All the while he could feel her eyes on him. Finally, she broke the silence, "I'll be seeing you at University Hall at nine, then?"

Mumbling in agreement, George stumbled to the door, trying not to trip over himself as he went.

-0-

The administrative center was situated atop a great hill overlooking the fairgrounds. If one stood at the top of the steps-as Emily did for quite some time, waiting for her accomplice to appear-the Grecian turrets of the Palace of Fine Arts were just barely visible through the trees. The western edge of the fairway was sparsely populated with souvenir vendors; many of the main attractions had yet to open, so all was quiet for as far as the eye could see.

Ultimately, she saw George approach, wearing a fresh set of clothes and toting two green tinted glass bottles. When he was finally within earshot, she asked, "What took you so long?"

"Try this," he encouraged, handing her the decanter of brown liquid. "They call it Dr. Pepper. It's like soda water, but with caramel flavor."

She watched the bubbles of carbonation form and rise to the top at an alarming rate. "It certainly doesn't _look_ very appetizing." And it was true; she as of the opinion that the beverage quite resembled pond sludge.

"They've been working on the formula for _fifteen years_ , Emily! At least that's what the vendor told me. I wonder if he has his doctorate…"

Grimacing, she tipped her head back and allowed the slightest drop to travel past her lips. At once her tongue and nose began to sting, but not painfully-no, the sensation was more akin to a tickle. And it was _supremely_ unpleasant. "I hope you didn't spend a good deal of money on these. This tastes like cough syrup."

He was genuinely surprised that she disliked it. "I suppose it's an acquired taste." The two turned and walked up several steps to the underside of a gothic archway. "You needn't worry, they were only two cents a piece."

"A fool and his money are soon parted," she intoned, watching as he downed the rest of his bottle.

Before they entered the building, he placed hers on the threshold and explained, "Just in case you change your mind."

They followed the signs past the administration offices for various exhibitions, including doors that bore signs such as " _REPLACEMENT GENERATORS-PALACE OF ELECTRICITY-DANGEROUS VOLTAGE-ENTER AT OWN RISK_ " and " _TEA STORAGE-EMPIRE OF JAPAN_ ". At the end of one corridor and up the stairs, they found what they'd been looking for.

The Vice Chancellor's suite was modest in scope; to get to his office, one had to pass through an antechamber, about the same size and shape as a broom closet. By some minor miracle, a janitor had managed to fit a desk lengthwise into the space. That was where they found Jonathan Larimore, bent over his schoolbooks and scribbling like a madman on a sheet of legal paper.

"Mr. Hampton isn't in at the moment," he said as soon as the door opened, not even bothering to look up at them.

Emily smiled and laid a hand on his desktop, gently closing the textbook. "We're not here for him. Truthfully, we need to-"

"I don't need your pity," he exclaimed, pushing his chair back. "It's been a steady stream of well wishes since the news about Celia broke. Everyone and their mother just wants to tell me how _sorry_ they are. People I've never seen before. They don't seem to understand that no amount of sympathy can bring her back from the dead. But as long as you're here, you might as well make yourself comfortable." Standing, he removed two buckets from a previously unseen closet and set them down before his desk, leaving the door open.

Both were taken aback by the young man's candor. He appeared at most a few years younger than them, but carried the barest suggestion of muscle across his shirtsleeves. Eventually, George spoke: "We're here on official business of the Toronto Constabulary under the supervision of the Metropolitan Police Department."

The young man appeared unimpressed, yawning into his hand as George flashed his badge. "Toronto, huh? I daresay you're a long way from home."

"We were hoping you could answer a few questions about your relationship with Celia Vandeventer," Emily said, choosing not to elucidate on the former topic. After all, they had no way of knowing if he was also in conspiracy with Eva.

He scoffed, knitting his fingers behind his head. "So I'm also a suspect in my fiancé's murder? Don't you have somewhere more useful to be?"

It didn't take a psychiatrist like Julia Ogden to discern that he was hiding his anguish behind a wall of sharp words. "You are not _necessarily_ a suspect, but it would behoove you to tell us everything you know." She leaned forward, hoping to convey with one prolonged look that the pleasantness of this interview was entirely contingent on his next response.

George was utterly mystified by what was taking place before him. At long last, he had seen it-the look capable of turning men to stone. Jonathan shifted in his seat and pushed his glasses up his nose. Frowned.

And then he began to talk.

They'd met the year prior at a mixer for students and their families, bonding over their shared tastes in novels. What followed was a whirlwind romance conducted in secret. She was a woman of means with several men lined up to court her; he was a student from a poor area of southern Missouri paying his way through university through work study. The Vandeventers never approved of their relationship, but that apparently didn't stop them from becoming engaged.

"She was willing to be disowned for me," he admitted, "In fact, she almost was."

"Almost?" George questioned, brows knit together as he attempted to memorize every facet of this conversation.

In the other room, the telephone rang. Jonathan stood at once and almost immediately lost his balance, but grabbed his desk to steady himself. He entered the adjoining room under a soft admonition of ' _careful, Mr. Larimore_ ' and soon he was in deep conversation with someone on the other end of the line.

The two of them made eye contact, and then looked together towards the open closet door. High upon one of the shelves was a small wooden box, precisely like the one given to Mr. Hampton by Eva the night before.

 _Was it the same one?_ There was only one way to tell. Emily rose as if to stretch, taking a step towards it-

And was promptly interrupted by Jonathan reentering the room. She sat down with force.

"As I was saying, apparently she had made amends with her mother in the past few weeks. That was just as well. I wanted her parents to be there for the opening ceremonies of the Olympics."

"To spectate?" She asked, eyes roaming over the academic materials on his desk. It appeared that the young man was a student of mathematics, for every spare scrap of paper was covered with complex formulas.

He shook his head. "No, ma'am. I'll be running the marathon that afternoon."

So she was somewhat of a local hero in sport, as well as a brilliant man of letters. "Congratulations. I hope you perform well."

"Mr. Larimore, did you see Celia the day of her murder?" George wondered, searching for a plausible alibi.

Another negative. "The secretary down the hall said that she came to see me, but no one was in. I found that odd, because she knew I had coursework that afternoon."

"I see. Are you willing to remain in town just in case we have more questions for you?"

"Look, Mr.- _Crabtree, was it?_ -I've got nothing to hide," he insisted, shrugging his shoulders, "I just keep the books."

The pair rose and traveled around his desk. "All the same, don't hesitate to contact us if you notice something."

"Notice something?"

"Something _suspicious_ ," George concluded, shaking his hand vigorously. Behind his back, Emily reached out and seized the box, tucking it into one of the folds in her skirt.

He seemed satisfied by this and returned the gesture. Just before they exited the office into the corridor, he added: "I'd suggest looking after her brother's fiancé, Evelyn. That woman is a witch."

-0-

"Did you notice how delirious he was?" Emily inquired as soon as they were outside once more.

Gathering their discarded soda bottles, George led the way to a shaded bench in the treeline. He hadn't noticed, but then again it was probably only something a physician could pick out. "How do you mean?"

She made a show of causing her hands to shake, yawning and blinking rapidly. "His pupils were massive. Perhaps it has something to do with conditioning for the marathon."

After considering this for a moment, he suggested: "Codeine?"

There was no way to tell, but it was certainly possible. Sitting down and making sure her back was to the building, Emily revealed the box she'd smuggled out of the Vice Chancellor's office. The top panel slid away to expose a delicately embroidered lace handkerchief. Before she even removed it, they could make out three letters stitched in one corner with immaculate cursive script: _VDV_.

If that was a coincidence, it was an extraordinary one. She uprighted the contents into her hand and was surprised at the weight. Carefully unfolding the fabric, Dr. Grace discovered a wrought iron key.

"I wonder what this unlocks?" George took it from her and held it up to the sunlight, finding its design nothing out of the ordinary.

Briefly she lifted the box to her nose and sniffed. Wrinkling her nose, she asked, "Do you _smell_ that?"

"Smell what?"

"Sulfur."

He didn't have time to respond, for in the next moment a woman screamed. It was a frantic noise, filled with terror, so the wind had no trouble carrying it up the hill to their ears. They didn't wait. Gathering her skirts in her hands, Emily dashed down the pathway after George.

Following the continued calls for help led them to the alleyway beside the Spectatorium. Several constables were already there. The victim faced away from them, crouched over with her hands clasped to her ears. She continued to vocalize her discontent.

As they got closer, her severe hairstyle and broad shoulders began to look familiar. "Anechka!" The doctor cried, falling to her knees and drawing her friend into her chest.

That was when George noticed a wooden handled revolver on the ground. Not far away, a shell casing lay spent. A ream of parchment paper had been tossed to one side, its pages begin tousled by the light breeze. From a distance, he was able to make out the photograph from Murdoch's telefacsimile, as well as the words: " _WANTED FOR SUSPICION OF MURDER. EVA PEARCE. AGED TWENTY-FOUR. ALIASES EVA MURDOCH, CASSIE CHADWICK. IF FOUND, DO NOT APPROACH. CONTACT THE METROPOLITAN POLICE_."

"Someone was following me as I was hanging up my posters, taking them down, staying just out of sight," she stammered out, her knuckles white as she clung to Emily. "I meant to get away from her, but she followed me into the alleyway. I looked over my shoulder and saw a gun, so I took papa's gun and shot her before she could shoot me. Oh, _bozhe moy_ , what if I killed her?!"

Neither said anything, for they knew better than to try and get any information out of a witness while they were emotional. Soon enough Detective Kidwell made an appearance, a rifle balanced in the crook of his elbow. "We found this just around the corner. It's safe to assume it's what they used to threaten her. Unfortunately, one of our men recognized it as belonging to the Hunting in the Ozarks exhibition."

"Thank _God_ you were on the beat," Emily ground out, her tone dripping with sarcasm. He didn't seem one bit concerned for the traumatized woman on the ground. "Could you describe what she looked like?"

Exhaling raggedly, Anechka made a gamble to steady her breathing. "Fair haired girl about my age, dressed well. A little short, with a birthmark on her face."

George appeared physically pained. "It's Marjorie. By heaven, they've got to arrest a _Rockefeller_."

"What's this now?" Kidwell cut in. "You could have saved us a lot of trouble if you'd just apprehended the girl, Miss Kapralova."

"Detective, I've just had the fright of my life!" She rasped, standing up straight. It was an ineffective attempt to gain compassion from the expressionless gentleman.

He made a dismissive hand gesture. "Where did you shoot her?"

"Just in the arm. I'm not a very good shot," she said sheepishly, as if that was something to be ashamed of.

To the officers nearby, he demanded, "Go to the hospitals in the immediate area. Tell them to look out for a young woman with a gunshot wound."

Once they were mostly alone and the bystanders had wandered off in search of other entertainment, Kidwell confided, "We've got another problem. I just came from the precinct-Dr. Haynes has been found dead."

 _(to be continued)_


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: So I'm not very happy with this chapter, but it's better to get it out there and keep moving forward rather than agonize about it. This is really just a build up to the next chapter, where everything begins to fall into place. Be forewarned that this chapter is a little more gory than the previous ones.

Next time: a shock at the funeral, and a talk with Mr. and Mrs. Vandeventer.

 **George and Emily Take St Louis**

 **Chapter Eight**

Upon entering the morgue, George was overwhelmed with the desire to turn around and walk straight back out. Before him, across the table, over the floor, and _up the wall_ , lay the bloodiest scene he could have possibly imagined.

Dr. Haynes was hunched over the examination slab in such a way that his feet dangled over the side. It seemed that the man had been taken by surprise, for a text was still open underneath him. He might have worn a shocked expression immediately following the attack, but there was no way of knowing; his head and face had been bludgeoned so severely that they scarcely recognized him.

To one side of the body lay a crowbar with a curved edge. While the others assumed it to be the murder weapon, as it was laying in a puddle of blood, Emily recognized it as the tool often used to crack open a rib cage.

Tentatively, she stepped forward and laid a hand on the exposed skin between his scalp and neck. "He's still warm," she concluded, "I would give the time of death as anywhere between one and three hours ago."

For the first time, Detective Kidwell was demonstrating cracks in his normally well-maintained facade. "Haynes worked here ever since I joined the force. He had no wife, no children...his work was all he had."

"It seems like he may have died for it." George had located the cabinet filled with case files. It didn't take long to confirm that the documents belonging to one _Vandeventer, Celia_ were missing.

Silently, Emily began to take notes on the crime scene before them, not skipping over any details.

"But why? The family's already collected the body. She'll be buried tomorrow. Everyone who has the right to know has heard the particulars of her death," the detective wondered.

"Have they?" Dr. Grace stepped over a pool of blood with the help of her companion and entered Haynes's office. "There was him, the three of us, and Anechka. And someone made an attempt on her life today. Her parents didn't ask a lot of questions when they picked up the casket, did they?"

Kidwell considered this for a moment, then shook his head. "It's to be understood. They are devastated."

No, it really _wasn't_. What kind of mother and father didn't want to know how their daughter died? Had they just assumed she was drowned accidentally?

Emily returned with the doctor's address book and began to flip through until she found the proper date. No appointments. Of course; that would have been too easy.

Now was as good a time as any to inform their superior about everything they'd seen and heard at the dinner party the night before. He listened with rapt attention until George finished his narrative: "It seems to me that someone is trying to murder everyone involved with this case."

The prospect was terrifying. Detective Kidwell grimaced, as it suddenly clicked he was standing before a dead body belonging to his colleague, and he might soon join him on the other side. If there was ever a time for action, it was now. "Are you quite sure Miss Kapralova was followed by the Rockefeller girl?"

It was going to be the talk of the city whether they were mistaken or not, but both knew they couldn't afford to be cautious. "Absolutely. I'd look after her, and send Anechka home to her family's store. Preferably with a guard posted."

"I'll conduct the autopsy on Dr. Haynes in the meantime," Emily asserted, having already tied an apron around her waist.

He stopped in his tracks halfway to the door. "Miss Grace, it's really not a trouble if you-"

 _"Dr. Grace."_

"Dr. Grace," he amended, "I'll telephone for a pathologist from another precinct if you would like."

"No, I'd prefer to do this myself," she sighed, taking stock of the bloody scene before her. In her mind's eye, she was still a fresh-faced eighteen year old in her first anatomy course. How nurturing, how _kind_ Haynes had been! He deserved closure for his senseless death, and she would trust no one else to see it through.

And so the detective left the room with the promise to have a man come in to photograph the mess. George watched as she wrapped her shoes in plastic sheeting and laid out a fresh set of tools. Truthfully, his stomach was twisted in such dreadful knots that he feared he might vomit. However, there was no way he could forgive himself if he left her to deal with the turmoil that this chaos had wrought.

He asked her what she needed and returned shortly with a bucket of ice. By some minor miracle, his girl had managed to hoist the body onto the slab and clean the floor in the immediate vicinity. Presently she stood a few feet away, arms crossed and expression indecipherable.

Wait a minute-when had he began to think of her as _his girl_?

It would be redundant to remind her that she could do this, because _of course_ she could. Emily could do _anything_. More than just the impending autopsy was on her mind; whatever scheme Eva had fashioned was going past its usual manipulation, and was actually causing them to question their own mortality. _How awful would it be to die on holiday, a thousand miles from home?_

Gingerly, he approached, giving her plenty of time to duck out of his embrace. To his relief, she relaxed into his arms, being ever so careful not to place her bloody hands on his clothes. "We're going to get through this," he mumbled into her hair, although it rather came out sounding like he was trying to convince himself.

-0-

A few hours later, Emily was elbow-deep in her former instructor's chest, and George was still attempting to keep down his breakfast.

He hadn't ever mentioned that the smell of rubbing alcohol and formaldehyde gave him trouble, even after all the time he'd incidentally spent in the morgue over the course of his career. More than once, she commented on how _green_ he looked and offered him a chair. It wasn't until she excised the heart that he accepted it, holding on to a nearby desk for dear life.

"Everything seems in order here," she said, crossing over to the other end of the table where Dr. Haynes's scalp had been cut and pulled back. "I'd wager to say that cause of death is blunt force trauma, resulting in loss of blood and lacerations to the brain. See the indentations from the crowbar on the cerebrum."

 _Good heavens._ He simply _couldn't_ look. The sickening squelching sound as she pushed the gray matter from one side to another was enough. "Pity we couldn't extract any fingermarks from the weapon." It lay before him in its own tray, having been cleaned and scoured for clues.

"Almost as if they knew what they were doing." She pushed the basin of water up to the slab and gently began to rinse the victim's hair.

Whatever manuscript the doctor had been studying at the time of death was so caked in blood that they could scarcely turn the pages. The fluid had soaked through the front cover so thoroughly that they suspected it would fall apart if they so much as leafed through it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Emily freeze in her motions, do a double take, and rustle through several sections of hair. Finally, she intoned, "George, come see this."

At first it appeared like nothing more than a stubborn patch of blood. But there were several punctures, all crescent shaped and spread relatively evenly across the scalp. "Is that-"

"Red nail polish cake," she confirmed, forming her hand into a claw and showing him how the spread of her fingers mirrored the injury.

At that moment the door leading to the staircase swung open to admit a rather frazzled Detective Kidwell. All through their work, George and Emily hadn't forgotten that the hustle and bustle of the precinct was taking place right above their heads. The constant boot steps were comforting after a while.

"Marjorie Rockefeller is missing," he told them breathlessly, barely giving a cursory glance to the dissected body on the morgue slab.

 _Damn it. Damn it all to hell and back_. Emily couldn't help but let the mental expletives fly. "How do you mean? Did you go to her home?"

"Yes, my men and I went to all her usual haunts. No one has seen her since the party last night."

Now _this_ was telling. Had she been chastised by the mastermind for her failed murder attempt on Anechka, or was this a self-imposed exile?

"We've notified other wards of this. Now, if you'll follow me, I've got Miss Cartier and Miss Pearce in the interview rooms," he said.

George cut a glance to her and was given an encouraging gesture. "Go on, then. I'll just finish up here. Remember to check for-"

"Yes, Emily." And then the two men were gone, up the stairs and into their first major interrogation of the case.

-0-

"You can't go easy on them," George pleaded with the detective, his hand poised over the doorknob. "This may be our only chance to get information."

In the first room, Eva sat with her hands folded daintily on the tabletop. Her lavender gown was immaculately pressed, the butterfly sleeves tapering into spotless white gloves. Expression betraying no hints of anxiety, she appeared in idle thought, as if she was waiting for the maid to bring her tea. When they entered the room, she stood, saying, "Detective Kidwell, am I being charged with any crime?"

"Not as of yet, miss. We only want to ask you a few questions," he answered, face impassible.

She pouted, her bottom lip barely jutting out above the top one. "I surely hope it won't take too long. I've got preparations to make for Celia's funeral and- _oh, my!_ Mr. Troost, you've shaved!"

Really, her false astonishment would have been better suited on the features of a comic actor. "Miss Pearce, my name isn't Otto Troost. You know me from your time in Toronto."

A moment passed as she made an elaborate show of wracking her brain. "Don't tell me that one of my William's constables has followed me all the way to states! Really, you should know better than not to introduce yourself properly. This is very poor form."

 _My William._ Something about the way she said it, so _possessively_ , that made the hairs on the back of George's neck stand up. He decided not to elaborate on how he came to the city, and instead got straight to the chase.

"For what reason are you impersonating a member of the Astor family?"

"I have done no such thing."

Her verbal tricks were as sharp as ever. Perhaps it was that Evelyn Astor was an object of her imagination. "Miss Pearce, you're cheating the Vandeventer family."

"I am deceiving no one. Edward and I are in love. Since when was it a criminal offense to change one's name?"

Fighting back a wave of frustration, George reminded himself that this was _progress_. They had gotten their main suspect to admit to being a wanted fugitive. From now on, he had to tread carefully.

"Where were you this past Saturday around three in the afternoon?"

"Why, I suppose I was out with my girlfriends on The Pike. They've got some lovely attractions." Catching Kidwell's eye, she winked.

He wasn't biting. "For the record, could you state the names of the women you were with?"

"Of course. Charlotte Cartier and Marjorie Rockefeller."

George frowned, coming to sit at the opposite end of the table. Pulling the chair in behind him, he mimicked a conversational posture. "At any point in the day did you ride the Magic Whirlpool?"

Nodding, she replied, "Naturally. I heard complimentary things about it."

Now that was curious. Why admit to an activity one knew would lead to the discovery of guilt? "And did you see Celia Vandeventer there or at any point during the day?"

Yawning into her palms, Eva took a damning amount of time to consider her next statement. She removed her gloves and placed them in her lap. The glint of light was unmistakeable; _red nail polish cake._ "No, sir, I did not."

This was a blatant lie if there ever was one. After countless interrogations in his line of work, whether observing or conducting them, George could recognize the signs. There was the looking up and to one side, and the slightest twitch of the lips. If the inspector were in this situation, he would try intimidation. However, they were dealing with a peculiar breed of criminal. In no way could they let on that they'd been seen fleeing the building.

"I'm sure you can understand that we are anxious to find out how your friend came to meet her demise. If you have any information for us, it would be treated in our most sincere confidence," Kidwell said, assuming a confrontational stance near the window.

"Gentlemen, I wish I could help you, but I'm as mystified as you are. _Who_ would end the life of such a beautiful young soul?" The question was rhetorical; the humility and subsequent tears were false.

He cut a monitory glance to the detective, lest he be taken in by the emotional display. "We regret to inform you that your friend Marjorie has gone missing. You know her best. Where might she be?"

"Assuming you've checked her home, the fairway, and the shops uptown, I haven't the faintest idea. I should hope she doesn't meet a similar fate," she answered, her tone lowering almost an octave by the time she'd finished.

"Would Miss Cartier corroborate your recount of the events of this past Saturday?"

Eva dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Certainly. But don't be surprised if she's twice as sentimental. Women in _her condition_ often are." With one hand, she made a circular motion in front of her stomach.

"I see. You are free to go, but you must stay in town. Surely you are aware that you are wanted in Ontario for assault. If you cooperate, we may be able to negotiate leniency," Detective Kidwell resolved, much to George's shock.

Her smile was so smug it instantly filled him with revulsion. "Thank you, sir. You are very kind."

As they turned towards the exit, Eva dealt the constable a look that only he could see. It was taunting, mischievous, as if to say, _go on and try me_.

Once they were out of earshot of the first interview room, George hissed, "Did you honestly promise _mercy_ to a wanted con woman?"

"Mr. Crabtree, this city and its denizens are infinitely complex. Believe me, I've spent my entire career learning their quirks. You can't expect every criminal to behave as they do in Toronto the Good."

-0-

"My great-uncle Louis would not be pleased if he knew I was being held in a _police station_ ," Charlotte groused, her eyes darting between the two men in the room.

The longer they remained engaged in the interview, the more George was convinced that there was a slight curve to the young woman's abdomen. Furthermore, she sat forward with her legs partly separated, and her accent struggled to conceal her frequent breathlessness.

"Are you certain that you didn't see Celia Vandeventer last Saturday afternoon?" Kidwell pressed, for he had also picked up on the fact that this young woman would be easier to intimidate.

She threw up her hands in frustration. "As certain as I am that the sky is blue!" Then, softly-" _Why_? Did Evelyn say the opposite?"

"Never you mind. Are you also certain that the last time you saw Marjorie was at the fundraiser?" George asked, affecting a scolding tone to his voice.

"That is the third time you've asked me that question!" She cried, choking up in the process. All fell silent for a moment. "Do not misunderstand me. I regret that Celia is dead and I hope Marjorie isn't in some sort of trouble. But _believe me_ , I have nothing to do with this."

Although she'd done nothing but present herself suspiciously over the past few days, George _did_ believe her. But there was one question that had yet to be answered. "How far along are you?"

She scoffed, turning quite red in the face. "Excuse me?"

He felt bad for Miss Cartier, for it was clear that her pregnancy's clandestine nature was being used by Eva to keep her in line with whatever scheme had been cooked up. "We have a female doctor here, if you would rather discuss this with her. My wife's had three children of her own, and by the looks of it, you're at least four months along. You ought to seek medical care." Detective Kidwell was punishingly direct.

"No!" Her voice was so high pitched with emotion that they were sure Eva could hear them from next door. "You don't understand. _No one_ can know."

The stigma surrounding unmarried mothers seemed to be the same everywhere. Irrationally, he wanted to protect the young woman, shield her from whatever was to come. But that required that she meet them halfway.

"Then I suggest you and your friends get your stories straight," the other man said.

Eyes downcast, she mumbled, "Yes, sir."

"One more thing before we release you, Miss Cartier. Would you mind removing your gloves?" What they saw could determine if an arrest could be made that day.

She was perplexed by this request, but complied. As she held them up for inspection, George mentally cursed his optimism.

It naturally followed that Charlotte would wear the same color nail polish cake as her best friend.

 _(to be continued)_


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: The scheme starts to unravel! The family's financial situation depicted here is similar to what befell the actual Vandeventer family, whose fortune fell to the victim of predatory lawyers and creditors.

Next time: A scavenger hunt of sorts in the halls of Washington University. Also...a little zestiness. You have been forewarned!

 **George and Emily Take St Louis**

 **Chapter Nine**

That night, just before moonrise, the heavens parted and ushered forth a cleansing rain. Through the pane glass window in the attic of his boarder's home, George watched the clouds rolling overhead. Every so often one would seem to slow, emit a slow rumble of thunder, and then continue on its way. On the horizon heat lightning flashed, illuminating the drops falling onto the parched avenue below.

Rain had always symbolized new beginnings. Just when you thought your narrow perspective would shatter and the world cease to turn, nature would remind humans of its precedence. And that had been comforting to the young man, through trials and tribulations, to know that the universe existed irrespective of his actions.

At the moment, George was missing the presence of a warm body pressed up against his own. He'd been spending all his time with Emily as of late, so it didn't escape him how he now ached for her. Her melodious laughter, luminous eyes, dainty hands gesturing as she talked. Heavens, he hadn't felt this way since…

 _When he'd fallen in love with her the very first time._

Rolling over to his side, he gathered a section of the blanket in his arms and sighed deeply.

A few miles away, Emily was in a similar predicament. Because of the weather, she and Anechka were relegated to the interior of the home, sharing a double wide bed like they might have as children. Try as she might-and she _did_ , for nearly an hour-she could not get comfortable. Finally, she got up to retrieve another pillow from the linen closet, settled back down, and situated it between her legs as she lay to one side. If she closed her eyes, really concentrated, it was as if she was indulging in someone else's body heat.

She hadn't come to the city with the intention of reigniting an old flame. But the spark had come from somewhere, and her love for George now smoldered like it never had before. She wanted him like a modern romantic, and required his presence like one did air and water. It had only taken a few momentary distractions to set them on the right path. And it _was_ the correct one, she would see to it. Everything was going to be _okay_.

Hours later, a lone gunman traversed the streets by night, the hood of their raincoat turned up to the onslaught. At last they reached their destination almost directly below the slumbering women, leveled the weapon, and fired a single shot into the storefront.

-0-

"Kidwell said that he's got his best men guarding the delicatessen this morning," George assured her as they sat in the interview room the following morning, literature pertinent to the case littered about.

 _He'd better._ After the initial fright had died down, the Kapralovs had been beside themselves as to how they would pay to replace the window. Emily had watched from a distance, barefoot in her nightgown, a grim expression adorning her features. They could have entered the home, climbed the fire escape, killed them all if they really wanted to. So whyever not? "I don't understand. She left the parasol, keys, nail polish, and her _identity_ out in the open for us to piece together. I'm _tired_ of Eva threatening us, George. She's not going to best us this time."

Was this the case even if she always appeared to be one step ahead? He'd kept up periodic communications with Detective Murdoch, who was just as perplexed as they. But if there was one thing he'd learned through assisting with hundreds of cases, it was _perseverance_.

From where they sat, the front desk was just barely visible. The telephone had been ringing off the hook over the past few hours-as it was said, tragedies often came in threes..or dozens...or _hundreds_. And to think that a summer storm had been enough to set the city on end.

The officer at the desk listened, brows knit together in confusion. He appeared to plead with the person on the other end of the line, urging them to speak slower. Then, catching George's eye, he beckoned him over.

"I caught that harlot in the office with the Vice Chancellor," Jonathan cried as soon as he made sure that he was talking to the correct individual. "She was sitting on his desk with her stockings exposed, her breasts out like she was a headliner at the burlesque. I cannot _believe_ her nerve!"

Flinching at the elevated volume of his voice, George took extra precautions to shield the receiver from casual listeners. Of course, this didn't include Emily, who had her chin on his shoulder straining to hear. "Slow down, Mr. Larimore. Who do you mean?"

He sputtered, not wanting to say her name aloud. "Your fugitive. I was just looking into records about some of Mr. Hampton's business transactions-what's more, there's several odd marks in his donation book-and came back unannounced. His door was unlocked, and I barged right in like the fool I am. Edward is going to throttle the man once he hears about this-"

"No!" George exclaimed, shocking the other man into silence. He wasn't sure how to explain that his candor would most likely result in him becoming the next target, so he settled on the most basic of questions. "Where are you right now?"

"Using the public telephone in the university library." There was an awkward shifting sound, as if he was trying to make himself comfortable in a wooden booth.

"You said there were strange transactions on the book. We'll be along to see them as soon as we possibly-"

Kidwell rounded the corner from his office, eyes wide as saucers. "There's an emergency. The family just rang from the Archdiocese."

What rotten timing! A beat of silence passed before Emily seized the receiver from his hand. "We will meet you within the next few hours. Be prepared to answer this telephone again."

And before their witness could complain, she hung up. The Detective was already struggling into his suit coat, hands shaking as he did so. Catching their confused looks, he said, "It's the body."

-0-

The center of Roman Catholic worship in the city was a tick closer to the river, erected in an unassuming middle class neighborhood. By comparison, the structure was magnificent, with twin watchtowers guarding the gothic archways leading to the entrance. The entire facade was wrought in brilliant neutral tones, but the lamp light seemed to shine from within. Once inside, George and Emily were spellbound by the lavish glass windows and mural space. The sanctuary itself was situated as a long corridor in the narthex style, with pews lining either side. Columns the breadth of several men's arm spans lead to what one could only assume was the rectory and confessional. Directly ahead, the main altar and ceremonial organ served as the anchor for the interior. Besides their own footsteps, the only other sound was the weeping of a woman before the pulpit.

Mrs. Vandeventer made no attempt to rise as they approached. Henry Bergen, however, clandestinely wiped his cheeks before turning to face them. He shook hands with Detective Kidwell, exchanging the usual pleasantries, then looked curiously upon his two companions.

Without a word, they walked towards the casket, which was hidden to one side just out of sight from passersby. Gingerly, the patriarch opened the lid and allowed them to behold its contents.

Marjorie Rockefeller lay supine, her lips parted in a soundless expression of terror. Blood had flowed from wounds in her scalp and arm, staining the silken interior. Her skin had already assumed the sickening pallor characteristic of the deceased; George couldn't help but notice the red varnish on her fingernails.

The funeral was to be today. This was the coffin that Celia was to be buried in. But if Marjorie's body was here, _where on earth was…_

"Mr. Vandeventer," George began as carefully as possible, for he too was horrified but what he saw, "Perhaps you remember me from the party, and I'm sure you assume by now that I'm not Otto Troost, nor is this my wife. Please, we must speak with you privately."

-0-

"I simply don't understand how we allowed ourselves to be taken in by her," the businessman proclaimed to both of the men sitting with him in the rectory dining hall. After the initial shock and anger that someone he'd taken for an old friend was an imposter, he'd listened to all they had to say and took it in stride. The newspaper clippings from Miss Pearce's exploits he spent great lengths of time poring over, expressing dismay that at the time he'd found her in Toronto she'd almost just caused the death of an innocent woman.

Detective Kidwell slid another file across the table, this one detailing the autopsy on Dr. Haynes. "Don't be too down on yourself, sir. These types make a living on duping upstanding people like you. There was another man before Edward, one Ian Worthington, that she wound up killing for his money. We can only assume her plan here is similar."

It naturally followed that upon the event of Celia's death, the younger sibling Edward would be the one to inherit the family's fortune. That was, if there was any left. George recalled the conversation they had eavesdropped on in the garden, and hoped that some light would be shed on the subject.

Henry Bergen leaned back in the chair, rubbing his eyelids his thumb and forefinger. After almost a minute has passed, he drew in a shuddering breath and confessed, "You don't know how difficult it is to feel like you have failed your family."

He went on to explain how he and his brother had made some poor business decisions and run afoul with the wrong loan agencies. Quite simply, their elite status at the gated community named for them was in serious jeopardy. "I assumed that Celia was killed by my creditors, and I didn't dare raise a fuss. That would be what they wanted me to do. It was only a sign that I ought to be raising money faster."

The detective's lips were held together in a thin line. Certainly it was illegal for a company to menace their debtors, but there were many things he had to turn a blind eye to in order to maintain the tenuous sense of peace in the city.

"It's all my fault. A month or so before our capital disappeared, I donated a substantial sum of money to Mr. Hampton under the guise of it going towards the Pike campaign. We pride ourselves on keeping the community separate from the rest of the city, and I was hoping he might dissuade the board of directors from expanding campus on the east half of Vandeventer Place, which contained lots that we desperately needed to sell. In return, we'd let him into the first home that opened up on our block. It was to be a simple transaction, really, but the money was non-refundable. I see now how selfish I was being. How _short sighted_ of me to risk my wealth on status, on the preservation of a community that was already dying the moment it opened its gates." His voice was raw with emotion, and he struck his fist onto the table with every point.

Something clicked in George's head. Had Eva caught on to the fact that her only chance at wealth now lay with someone else, and was now hurriedly getting rid of the people involved in the first stage of her plan? "How do you mean?"

He stood all of a sudden, proceeding to one of the windows that faced the street. "Look around! The city is growing, and no one can stand in the way of progress! Certainly not old money, and certainly not _me_!"

The investigators took in this outburst, carefully rifling through the stacks of evidence they'd brought with them. At last George gave up on the search; all the newspaper clippings in the world would not further convince Mr. Vandeventer that Eva Pearce was a blight on society that must be brought to justice. For murder, for coercion, for violation of a corpse.

"We believe that Miss Pearce may be in league with the Vice Chancellor in some sort of scandal. Would you care to help us?"

-0-

"You're telling me that her name really _isn't_ Evelyn Astor?" The matriarch of the family asked softly as they sat among the pews in the main sanctuary. Even so, her voice echoed around the arched ceiling, giving an impression of the lack of privacy.

Emily had lost track of how many times that she'd told her _just that._ They'd already been over the suspicious circumstances with which they'd seen the girls fleeing the Magic Whirlpool, the keys left in the Vice Chancellor's office, and the disturbing trail of other clues that had led them from one end of the city to the other. Elizabeth was numb to everything she was hearing, perhaps from shock or denial. And it was more than a little off-putting. "No, ma'am. I put on a persona to help catch her in a similar fraud back in Toronto. She nearly killed my dearest friend. I know what she is capable of, and she will stop at nothing to achieve her goal."

From her handbag she produced a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, which were already bone dry. An attendant had whisked Marjorie's body off to an undisclosed location, after swearing that the delivery _man_ who'd brought the casket from the funeral home had appeared one hundred percent legitimate. Now, they weren't so sure.

"Edward is going to be so _disappointed_ ," she mumbled in what was sure to be the understatement of the year.

In a stilted attempt to comfort the grieving woman, Emily wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Rest assured that we are going to capture this woman. The Metropolitan Police and Toronto Constabulary will be behind you every step of the way."

"Miss Grace, do you feel _free_?"

The question took her aback, and for more than one reason. At last, she answered, "I do."

The socialite stood, brushing off her skirts. "I envy you so." And then she proceeded towards the doors at the back of the atrium, her pace ever so stately.

-0-

Consoling the sorrowful parents took considerably more time than either anticipated; it was very near to sundown when George and Emily entered the library on the campus of Washington University. There were perhaps half a dozen academics engaged in their work, even during the summer season. They found Mr. Larimore dozing off in the phone booth on the second floor, his record books protectively clutched to his chest like an infant.

He started at the sudden awakening and almost fell to the floor, but caught himself at the last minute. "It's the most unusual thing," he whispered, leafing through pages on his way to the correct date. "This section is for the receipts of donation, and this one for bank slips when the funds are deposited in a secured university account. It's all very interesting, tracking how money goes back and forth. I suppose one day they might have a more efficient way of doing this, perhaps with a machine of some kind."

It didn't take long for them to locate the line labeled Henry Bergen Vandeventer. Upon seeing the full dollar amount of his contribution, a whopping _three hundred thousand dollars_ , George momentarily forgot to breathe. Without delay, Emily slapped him on the back, causing normal respiratory functions to resume. "See the routing number assigned to this transaction. However, if you go to the section on the end of the bank, the final two digits are switched."

 _So they were_. "And I suppose that number is assigned to another purchase entirely."

"Not quite. I took the liberty of calling down to the financial officers that manage these accounts. On that day, only a fraction of that amount was transferred. They had to search their records by date because the numbers didn't match."

He pushed his chair back from the table, looking a little too smug for a man in his situation. "I ask you then, how exactly does two hundred thousand dollars vanish from an armored motorcar, under the guard of at least half a dozen men and someone counting it at either end?"

Truly, there was only one answer to that question.

-0-

After telephoning back to the precinct with their findings, George and Emily advised their witness to seek shelter with friends for the evening. He'd heard that the funeral had been cancelled but hadn't known why, and for the moment that was preferable. Before leaving, he promised to help them find the door that belonged to the set of keys they'd stolen-er, _found_.

As they made their way down the steps of the library, Emily realized that they'd slipped into an old habit, as her hand rested in the crook of his elbow. They needed time to think about what was going on between them and everyone else. They needed to _talk_.

"Would you care to accompany me back to the hotel room?"

This was a question to which he could easily say yes.

 _(to be continued)_


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Alright, people. This is the chapter this fic was rated for, more or less, not counting the imagery of blood and death throughout. Please be warned that there is sexual content here, but not very descriptive and not much more than you'd see in your average PG-13 movie.

Shout out to RuthieGreen for her spot-on psychological diagnosis of our villain, which is referenced here!

Next time: Everyone's got some skeletons in their closet, including Eva.

 **George and Emily Take St Louis**

 **Chapter Ten**

"Riddle me this," George said as he sat in the chaise, the daily newspaper folded over his knees, "Eva coerces her friends into helping her murder Miss Vandeventer. The ensuing racket is drowned out by the waterfalls. However, no one saw the deceased enter the attraction and the evidence we have placing the three of them in the ride is circumstantial at best. I am certainly not an unbiased witness, and the attendant could have been swayed. So how is it that a delirious woman in a drug induced stupor managed to follow three people in the heat of the afternoon through the crowds, locate the service entrance, and traverse the Magic Whirlpool? And for what purpose?"

Emily was lying atop the covers in bed, her legs stretched out before her as she repeatedly ran a brush through her curls. She wore a dressing gown generously provided by the housekeeper, whose royal purple hue set off the ivory tones in her skin. Having been mostly silent throughout their discussion of the case, it was evident that something else was on her mind. "Perhaps to confront them. Jonathan did say that she came around to the office that morning; I'm willing to bet she had just discovered Eva's plot and needed to tell someone about it."

"And the codeine? How did she come to ingest that much in the first place?" The paper was set aside and he settled farther down into the cushions, fingers knit together behind his head.

She slid off the bed at enough of an angle that George caught a glimpse of her underthings. Quickly, he averted his gaze as she closed the blinds and turned on the lamp at the bedside table. "Methyl morphine is a queer sort of drug. Once ingested, it takes anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour or so to hit, depending on a person's body mass. It's perfectly feasible that Celia arrived in his office under considerable stress, remembered him speaking about how his training medication took the edge off, and self medicated. Or maybe he'd mixed it in his morning coffee and she took a long drink, or took it out willingly out of sympathy."

" _Sympathy_ , Emily?" It never failed to amaze him just how much insight she had into the human spirit.

"They were engaged. The pain of one is the anguish of the other. Whatever the case, it seems that she lost track of reality, stumbled into the fairgrounds on her way home, and happened upon the three girls," she explained, climbing back into bed. Laying on her stomach, she turned to face him, her head propped up in her hands and feet in the air.

This made sense, but then again they would never know the true reason behind Celia's intoxication. "So Eva knows that someone is wise to her scheme and wants to silence anyone who could bring her to justice. It's easy to coerce Marjorie and Charlotte, but the law isn't so easy swayed. Dr. Haynes was first on the list. Any one of the girls could have done him in; they were all wearing red nail polish cake."

And so that had been the damning clue for each of them. "It wouldn't have made sense for Marjorie to go after the doctor, George. She'd just been shot in the upper arm, and must have been bleeding quite heavily. And she couldn't have gone to the precinct first-whoever killed him would have been simply _doused_ in his body fluids. Consider that she must have sought out Eva to inform her that the plan to stop Anechka from circulating the flyers she'd made had failed, and she reacted out of anger."

"That leaves Eva and Charlotte as primary suspects," he leaned forward and took one of her hands, subconsciously running his fingers over the dorsum. "While it's possible that a pregnant woman could have wrought that much damage on a victim, I certainly don't like to think about it. Let's assume Miss Pearce beat Dr. Haynes to death, escaped out from the crawlspace to an undisclosed location, then shot her friend to keep her from seeking medical attention. Why then would she go to the trouble of switching the bodies at the funeral home?"

Dr. Grace considered this for a moment. "For all we know, it could have been to perpetuate Mr. Vandeventer's assumption that his creditors were coming after him, with the murder of another wealthy socialite. She must have filched a delivery boy's uniform and disposed of her bloody clothes. We already know she is a master of disguise."

"The risk of being caught would be too great," he refuted that theory with a shake of the head. "And Julia's findings indicate that Eva isn't _completely_ insane, just a malignant narcissist. Her connection to Mr. Hampton may be stronger than we believe. The switch may not have been her idea."

So one of the Vice Chancellors of Washington University was thoroughly, irrefutably deranged? Something didn't add up. Emily knew first hand how love could drive people to do things they normally wouldn't, but this was a bit of a stretch.

"If this was true, her original plan must have been to get rid of the children so that she would inherit the Vandeventer family's fortune. When she discovered that they were close to bankruptcy, her loyalty shifted, and now she and Mr. Hampton are biding their time in town until they can get rid of all the witnesses to their crimes. Why would they do this, now that the entire police department is after them?" Rolling over onto her back, she met his gaze upside down.

"You said it yourself, Emily. She _wants_ us to find her. There must be some sort of crucial clue we're missing," George said. Eva still had her wits about her, enough to leave whatever enclave she was holed up in the middle of the night in pursuit of retribution. As if Anechka and her family weren't terrified enough by what happened, she'd shot into the storefront for good measure. By comparison, this seemed gratuitous, even _petty_.

She shrugged, casting off his speculation with an air of finality. "Everything always becomes clearer after a good night's sleep."

Both were thinking that they hadn't been able to achieve that in almost a week, but didn't want to dwell on the reasons. Looking upon her heart shaped face, her eyes closed in rumination, George was suddenly seized with a burst of affection. Before he could give it a second thought, he leaned forward and kissed her softly.

Her lips came together in a warm smile. "Come to bed," she encouraged him, rubbing the bedspread with her hands.

George jerked backwards as if he'd been stung. This wasn't a request that came innocently. He would be lying if he said he didn't want to lay with her, to feel every inch of her exquisite body against his own. But there were still many things that needed to be discussed if they were to resume to their relationship ever again. "Might we talk about us first?"

Rolling back over and tucking her legs underneath her, Emily felt the heat rising to her cheeks. A nagging voice in the back of her mind told her that she _should have expected this._ Why, oh why was she _constantly_ putting her foot in everything?

"Fine. I'll go first." His eyes were on her, and she had never felt so vulnerable. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "Whenever I embraced Leslie, or Lillian, or anyone else for that matter, it was always you I saw when I closed my eyes. If you ask me, we never should have split up. We were too young, too prideful, to see that we were pushing each other away. If we tried again, I know we could make it right."

The expression that crossed his face in that moment was nothing short of astounded. Before he could reply, Emily stood. "You don't understand, George. You've been driving me _mad_ ever since I came to work at the constabulary. It's your foolish jokes, your smile, your creativity. And the way you look at me- _Me!_ -as if I was some icon of intellect. You made me work harder, just so by the end of the day I'd have time to go to the vaudeville or the hot dog stand with you. I just can't say it enough-it's you, it's you, _it's always been you_."

Quickly, the separation between them began to feel like an untraversable canyon. He coughed into his sleeve, taking in how both her hands were unclenched at her sides, subconsciously reaching for him through this storm of emotional burden. Even now, tears were building up in his throat, threatening to cut off his words. So he began to speak, and didn't stop until they all ran together.

"Emily... _believe me_ , I didn't mean to rush into this. But ever since you left Toronto, I've been a mess. You can ask anyone at the station house. All I had to keep myself company was the memories I made with you. And now that we're together again, I realize that I'm in love with _you_ , and not just the good times. Please, if only so I can finally sleep at night, I have to know if you do."

She took a step towards him, her face upturned. "Do what?" It was a daft question, but right now her heart was pounding so loud she could scarcely hear a word he said after the declaration.

He took her hand, gently teasing her fingers with his own. Then he suddenly gripped it hard and asked, scarcely above a whisper, "Do you love me as much as I love you?"

"I love you more," Emily answered automatically. "To the moon and back, to the depths of my heart, to the edges of the universe."

The other hand came up to catch her cheek, and she nuzzled into it. George was having a hard time talking, for his lips were contorted in the most ludicrous smile she'd ever seen. "My dear, I'm not sure that's possible."

At last she closed the distance between them, melting into his arms. They kissed once, twice, then separated a fraction of an inch apart. It was as if something snapped between them, for George took a protective hold on her waist and brought her in again. Their embrace quickly turned passionate.

"Show me," she murmured close to his ear, gently massaging his back.

His hands trailed downward to softly cup her backside, and soon Emily found herself lifted atop a chest of drawers. The display of dominance was impetuous, but not unwelcome. One shoulder of her robe had slipped, revealing the strap of her camisole. Try as he might, George could not keep his eyes off of her decolletage, which was rising and falling with each shuddering breath. "May I?"

 _Damn him and his gentlemanly sensibilities!_ She responded by tugging at the tie around her waist, unveiling her satin undergarments to the casual view. Taking this as a resounding _yes_ , her companion placed a tentative hand on her knee, slowly running it up the length of her body. When at last he reached her breasts, his deft fingers slipped underneath the fabric, eliciting a gratified sigh.

Emily hoped she would never forget the sensation of it, his lips on her neck and her fingers threaded through his hair. Even in their first courtship, they hadn't gone so far physically. Continuing the tortuously slow perusal of her form, George allowed his hands to wander, causing her hips to buck under his touch. She didn't know where on earth he'd learned to do such a thing, and frankly, _she didn't want to know_.

Roughly, she shoved him off. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he'd done something wrong, or if he'd hurt her in some way. Yet the fiendish glint in her eye told otherwise.

" _May I_?" She echoed his previous statement, except she didn't wait for a response. His belt came off with a snap.

The next few seconds are a blur. She made a bold play for the most sensitive parts of him; he exhaled through his teeth, trying not to make any incriminating noises that passersby in the hall might hear. Eventually, they collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs.

After a brief struggle, Emily came out on top, cheeks pink with exertion. The image of her perched on his chest, hair tousled and smirk tugging at the corners of her lips, is one that would forever be in his memory. But because he tried his best to be honorable, and his aunts had taught him better than to take advantage of a woman, he had to doubly ascertain her consent. "Love, are you sure about this?"

She couldn't help it; the question was _ludicrous_! Struggling to her feet at the edge of the bed, she actually interjected, "Are you kidding?"

The robe came off with a shimmy of the shoulders. Next, she made sure the camisole and bloomers join it on the floor, all the while holding his gaze.

That's when George knows he's done for.

-0-

"If this key doesn't belong to a room in this building, I'm going to lose my mind," Emily said as they trudged up what felt like the millionth staircase in the sixth lecture hall they'd searched that morning.

Jonathan Larimore lead the charge indefatigably through campus, a prodigious ring of keys proceeding him through every archway and passage. It was a wonder what finally acquiring a search warrant with probable cause could get their investigation, for they were now allowed in all buildings that had been shuttered for the summer season.

And so they had began in the halls hosting all manners of classes in the natural sciences, going off of the noxious sulfurous smell wafting from the box. Once he'd heard the rest of the story, Celia's fiance hadn't been irritated at their decision to steal from his boss's office. Besides, his opinion on the man in question had _definitely_ changed over the course of the past twenty-four hours. "This campus is the second largest in the state, right after the flagship university in Columbia. There's also dozens of underground tunnels, which definitely warrant a look if we come up empty," he explained, demonstrating his exhaustive _(if not momentarily irrelevant)_ knowledge of his place of employment.

George brought up the end of the line. For the past few hours, he felt like he'd been walking on air. Today of all mornings he hadn't wanted to get out of bed; now that he and Emily had finally shared the depths of their love for one another, a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. A part of him had feared that she would think their coupling had been a mistake, but upon waking, she'd only cuddled up closer, kissing him and reminding him that _she loved him_ , and what's more, she would let it happen _again_. They could have stayed there all day, but the case required their absolute attention.

Progress on the case had picked up considerably. There was now a warrant out for Eva Pearce's arrest, published in the _Post and Dispatch_ for all to see. Already the precinct had received reports of seeing her about town, but attempts to locate her were unsuccessful. Curiously, Mr. Hampton had neglected to come to work that morning.

Upon arriving on the top floor, they split into two groups on opposite sides of the corridor. One would check the classrooms to see if one had been left unlocked by chance, and the other would try the key on each of the locked doors. It was time consuming work, but George and Emily were confident that it would lead them to the clue that would crack the case wide open.

Eventually they arrived in the basement, which was lit by naked bulbs sparingly dotting the ceiling. It seemed that every other floor tile was missing, creating an uneven walking surface. That was when Emily chose to broach the question that would confirm their theory on Celia's death: "Mr. Larimore, do you keep codeine in your personal affects?"

To his credit, he barely flinched at the intrusive query. "Certainly. It's given to me by my trainer. You get a little drowsy, but after that you're more alert than you could be otherwise."

"Celia was found to have high amounts of the drug in her system when she died. What are the chances she got it from your desk when she came to check up on you?" George wondered, causing his hand to freeze over the next doorknob.

Jonathan's smile fell, replaced with a dour grimace. If this was so, he could be indirectly responsible for her inebriation, and subsequently her death. He turned to one side to hide his anguish, turning the key in the lock in the process.

The door swung open without pause.

 _(to be continued)_


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Wow, I hope this chapter didn't go completely off the rails. I feel like it might have. But go hard or go home, right? Emily gets her chance to shine.

The things I had to look up to make sure the details were right here...I can only imagine the network administrator at my university scrolling through my history and being confused. Wrapping up the mystery is always the most difficult part. On a lighter note, I just started watching the comedy show Another Period, and now I can't take any of our socialites seriously.

Next time: A city-wide search begins and ends. Also, an unexpected visitor. This story is going to have thirteen chapters.

 **George and Emily Take St Louis**

 **Chapter Eleven**

The smell emanating from the chamber was positively putrid. Several comparisons came to mind, including spoiled eggs, sitting water, and rotten sewage. Almost immediately, George began to cough, and buried his face into his shirt sleeve.

Emily was first to enter, holding a handkerchief up to her mouth and nose. Her eyes were watering from the stench, but through the tears she could make out the light switch just over the threshold. A pale glow was cast over the most random assortment of desks, samples, and failed experiments she'd ever seen. There was scarcely room to walk, so she traversed the space by clambering over broken bookshelves and sliding under tables. To her recollection, there had been a room like this at the medical college, where unwanted supplies went to be forgotten.

Their first priority would be to locate the source of the stench, which proved to be difficult, for the air was pretty evenly blanketed. Jonathan noticed there was an odd sort of vapor in the air, and traced the wisp to a forty-five gallon jug propped up against the wall. He placed a hand atop the lid, instantly recoiling. The reinforced metal was scorching to the touch.

"Step back," Dr. Grace demanded, having found a crowbar on a nearby table. Cautiously she tilted it to one side, hearing the slosh of liquid and a bit of solid hitting the rim. A hiss characteristic of an acid making contact with material filled her ears. Making sure to cover her hands with her sleeves, she pried open the barrel.

At once the air was filled with a thick fog which stung the lungs. Emily, who was closest, fell away whooping for air. Contrary to its surroundings, this was a very fresh sample.

George stepped forward to support her by the waist, peering into the opening.

The drum was filled with a mostly clear fluid, which bubbled and frothed as it was exposed to air. It had been tainted with a reddish tone; vague organic shapes were held in suspension. Something that looked a finger bone floated to the top, and he instantly realized what he was looking at.

In all of his days in the constabulary, he'd never beheld something so horrifying.

A set of clothes was found tucked between the barrel and the wall, a finely beaded skirt and matching blouse. They were handed off to Jonathan, who was quite weak in the knees. The fabric slipped between his fingers, an envelope hitting the ground.

"It's sulfuric acid," Emily stammered. She typically had a strong stomach for these kinds of things. "What we smell is the reaction with the sulfates in her body."

After a long moment of silence in which they all watched the remains of their first victim float to the top in disembodied chunks, Mr. Larimore stated in a dangerously even tone, "I'm going to kill her. Mark my words. I'm going to kill that Pearce girl, and they will find _nothing left._ "

Neither blamed him. They quickly closed the lid, but this was nothing that could be erased from memory once the sight was gone. Leaving the light on, the trio reconvened in the hallway, shutting the door behind them.

The tears were freely flowing down the face of Celia's fiancé, his expression contorted with the weight of emotion he was feeling. When George sat down next to him, shaking his shoulder in a feeble attempt to comfort him, he began to weep openly, his sobs echoing about the narrow walls.

All the while, he pressed his face into the clothes they had intended to bury her in, drawing in long drags of her lingering scent. Emily crouched before him, murmuring words of amenity. She'd certainly been there before, having lost a person she cared deeply about in a senseless act of violence, and therefore could not deny his right to mourn.

Once the tears had subsided, they thought to go after the envelope that had been left behind. The outside was addressed, in immaculate cursive script, to _dearest William's constable and his lady friend_. Mentally steeling himself for what he was about to see, George opened the seal and began to read.

-0-

 _My most heartfelt greetings to the both of you. It's been several days since we last spoke, in the interview room with Detective Kidwell. He's a lovely gentleman, and quite accommodating of my progress. And you can tell him I said that._

 _As you can tell by now, I am a woman on a mission. I first came to St. Louis on a whim, to recuperate from my time spent in Dr. Ogden's prison. Really, the cots were uncomfortable, the food was dreadful, and I got so little sunlight that my skin was pasty white. Now, I am more healthy and beautiful than ever. The Midwestern climate does one good, I've decided._

 _Anyhow, I digress. I had to regain my strength and plot my next move. My William is still caught in that dreadful marriage to that unpleasant woman-I just know he's so passionate under that stoic exterior, and she is cold, sexless, entirely not suited for him. I had a lot of time to think while locked away in that cramped little cell surrounded by those criminals-what quality does the doctor possess that tricks William into thinking that she is a more suitable candidate to have his children than I? At last, I reached the conclusion that it must have been money._

 _Doctors make good amounts of it, far more than police detectives at any rate. Therefore I do not begrudge William for wanting a safety net in case he is let go from his position-not that I see that happening, he is so brilliant, so well suited for his job. I daresay he almost caught me in compromising positions a few times. But I know he enjoys the challenge, the chase, just as much as I do. So even if he will entertain the presence of that cold fish, the practical side of his mind keeping him locked in an increasingly unhappy marriage, the more adventurous side of him will always desire me. And why shouldn't he? I am young and beautiful, like a modern day Aphrodite. At least this is what my fiance tells me._

 _Oh, Edward-what a simple, moderate soul. He is completely devoid of interesting qualities, always babbling on about his studies and who bested who in backgammon last night at the social club. But I always smile and bat my lashes, for he has the one thing that I want._

 _Before my quest for wealth was always self-motivated-I do so ever like nice things. What woman doesn't? Now it is for a higher, nobler purpose. One day I shall return to Toronto, pocketbook bursting with notes, and William will have no choice but to give up this delusion that he is in love with that woman. I will save him from her influence._

 _It didn't take long to immerse myself into the world of Vandeventer Place; one could say I was a natural at blending in with these glamorous women, their glittering salons and expensive clothes. Henry Bergen and Elizabeth found me charming, and as I had taken the guise of an heiress from the East Coast, were ever so eager to have me court their son. I would have had a charmed life keeping the home while Edward was away on business, and I do not think he would have minded if I took a lover or two. What use is beauty like mine, after all, if you cannot share it?_

 _Then one day as I sifted through the family's correspondence-just to make sure I was fully prepared to be part of their kin-I discovered a frightening truth. Mr. Vandeventer had run afoul of his business partners and would soon be destitute. And he hadn't thought to tell me! Imagine distrusting your son's fiance so much that you didn't inform her of family matters! Perhaps he thought I would become disinterested in marrying the man._

 _He was correct. Arthur Hampton helped me understand that. It was he that offered me a way out. He would share the Vandeventer's contribution to the Pike fund with me-all I had to do was share his bed, and be ready to flee the country at a moment's notice. The VC truly loves me, unlike Edward, who I suspect only wanted me as arm candy. This will be the downfall of the both of them._

 _You see, for some time Arthur has been skimming from the top of the donations he receives from the city's elite. I do not blame him. All that money sitting in a vault, and no one would bat an eye to him making periodical withdrawals. As I write this, he's saved nearly a million dollars for the future. For our future._

 _Of course he can die, just like the rest of them, in a timely accident. That's all Celia's demise really was. The night before, we'd both gotten tipsy on Elizabeth's wine, and while the others slept in the guest rooms, she coaxed the truth out of me. I have very few weaknesses, but the drink is one of them. I told her everything. Hours later, I watched her stumble out of the house on her way to God knows where. And I couldn't let my cover be blown. So I corralled her into the bathroom and imparted upon her Eva's patented hangover cure- a cap of codeine. I had filched it from her fiancé's desk the last time I went to see Arthur. How fortuitous that he is a marathon runner, I thought! Perhaps I may have given her up to a dozen of them. That doesn't matter anymore._

 _I thought she would simply pass out in an alleyway or on the streetcar and be brought home by a good Samaritan with no memory of what had transpired, but imagine my surprise when we came upon her in the Magic Whirlpool! She'd managed to slip through the service entrance to confront me. Now, as you can imagine, that simply would not do._

 _Marjorie was just a casualty of circumstance. I told her to see after that wretched Russian portraitist and stop her from spreading my photograph. (They must have forced it out of my poor William. He always did bend to authority.) Nevertheless, she failed in her task, just like I expected she would. So I had to put an end to her part in the scheme. It was her fault really-she was so foolish, always telling people that her father was John Rockefeller and not the truth, that it was one of his less impressive brothers, and that she was illegitimate. Later on, I was so angry at losing a friend that I trekked all the way down to the poor part of town to seek my revenge on the family of the girl who made me do that. I could have broken the door down, ran up the stairs, and killed them all, but I didn't. As I shot into the window to make an opening for myself, the electric lights in the neighbor's parlor came on. I ran before my cover could be blown._

 _My dear Arthur came up with the idea of switching the bodies, and did so himself while I ran a few errands. The coroner at the precinct had to go next. He knew too much. I destroyed his files on Celia along with the woman in question, which you have no doubt discovered. It was all for the best, though. We were sloppy when Celia met her end, and would not be again._

 _Unfortunately, because you have found this letter, it seems that my William has trained you well. I understand now that it was a bit of stretch to have Mr. Vandeventer believe that her daughter's friend was killed by those mobsters he borrowed from. They are good, but not that good. They are not me._

 _I am still in the city, as you might have guessed, and will continue to evade capture as long as it takes for me to reach the goal Arthur and I have set forth. But things are getting messy, and so we had to plot our escape. We will do so this next week after a grand explosion somewhere in town. Thank heavens for the research graduate in chemistry and their willingness to share their theses with a higher up at the university!_

 _Why am I letting you know this? Why, my dear constable, it is so you can prepare. It will undoubtedly be a marvelous spectacle._

 _And so we are at a crossroads, with several names to cross off my list until I can start my new life. Then there is one more and I can return to William, triumphant, wealthy on my own terms, a better woman. The fact that the two of you are here to see me on the world's stage shows that fate has a hand in all of this. It is a sign. I will finish the job. I will put an end to all of this madness. And my William will be proud of me._

 _Best wishes,_

 _Ms. Eva D. Pearce_

-0-

"Just what kind of game is she playing?" Jonathan exclaimed once they had all read it. His heart was pounding in the heat of the narrow corridor, not to mention with righteous anger. "Why admit all of those things if she knows it will make it easier for us to catch up to her?"

Emily stood, walking back towards the storage room. "It's simple, Mr. Larimore. She doesn't believe she can be caught. Eva's pride is her fatal flaw."

A few moments pass where the only sounds George hears are the overturning of tables and chairs. Finally he gives into his curiosity and follows her in. She is examining every empty cylinder of gas, most likely searching for the weapon with which their suspect plans to level part of the city.

"Assuming she is referring to an actual explosion and not something else in the metaphorical sense, it would make sense that their materials would be down here. We are looking for something that would be easy for the general public to acquire," she said, squinting to read the labels. He soon joined in, reading every canister he found aloud to her, for it was safe to say that he knew very little about chemistry.

The bookkeeper stood in the threshold, keeping silent watch. He had gone through so much emotional turmoil in the past few days, and wasn't sure he was up to the physical challenge of searching for explosive materials in the room where his fiancé's remains lay decomposing.

Soon Emily announced that she'd found something of interest, ripping a blanket from a stack of oblong cylinders. "This is it," she called out.

"How do you know?"

"Any chemist worth their salt would not store containers of flammable gas in such a way, even if they were seemingly empty." Carefully, she righted one of them, holding the label up to the light. Seconds later, a string of curse words escaped her lips.

George rushed to her side, grabbing the cylinder to keep her from dropping it. This was not necessary, for her hands held the pressure gauge in the closed position with a vice like grip. "This is diazomethane. I remember reading about it in a journal about five years ago."

"How dangerous is it?" Jonathan asked.

She shook her head. "If I remember correctly, it explodes when exposed to light, heat, or rapid movement. If you're standing close enough to it, it can kill you instantly."

Silently, the two of them lowered the canister down to the ground and stepped away.

"We have to telephone Detective Kidwell. The search must begin at once."

 _(to be continued)_


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: By golly, I promised a wild ending, and I'll be darned if this doesn't fulfill that vow. Sorry in advance for the wicked cliffhanger.

If you're interested, I recommend looking into the 1904 Summer Olympics Marathon. It was a catastrophe on a whole other scale, so I thought it would be permissible to bend history a little bit to fit this story in. The historical details of the opening ceremonies are mostly correct...you know, save for the obvious. And I moved the start of the marathon up a few hours. Ah, well, artistic license!

Next time: The conclusion. Endings and new beginnings.

 **George and Emily Take St Louis**

 **Chapter Twelve**

Several days passed with little to no progress being made on the case. Officers from precincts all over the city and even the surrounding counties were called in, given an assignment of several square blocks, and told to report back with their findings. The fire department was on constant alert as it was due to the punishing summer heat, but now they had another reason to be waiting by the telephone. According to Emily's calculations in conjunction with Detective Murdoch, the amount of gas that had been in the empty containers was enough to reduce a multistoried building to gravel and asphyxiate up to one hundred people. And the most frightening part about this entire ordeal was that the bomb could be _anywhere_.

Naturally the first place they searched was the residence of the Vandeventer family, turning the place upside down and inside out until they could reasonably assume that no harm was going to come to Celia's remaining family. Properties owned by Washington University were next, and then the palaces at the top of the hill. Next the search turned to residential neighborhoods, where subtlety was to be their utmost priority. The entire city was buzzing with excitement over the opening ceremonies of the Olympic Games, and athletes from all over the world had ventured into the interior of the country to enjoy American hospitality. How would it look, Detective Kidwell had lectured his men at the morning meeting, if his officers were running around turning suitcases inside out in search of poisonous gas?

The night before the games were to begin, George and Emily found themselves in the interview room. It had been a long day of combing through the city's most obscure public venues, and both were perspiring in the heat. Even Toronto in the dead of summer had never been this stifling-the humidity coupled with the lack of breeze was downright _hellish_. Presently Emily sat with her legs crossed, her stockings and shoes tucked underneath the table. As she flipped through search warrants, noting how nothing had been found each time, she called out the location, only to have George cross it out on the map that had been tacked to the wall.

The expanse of city streets, which had once been an aesthetically pleasing collection of lines parallel to the Missouri River, were rapidly collecting in black splotches of ink. They began to see little patterns in the design between neighborhoods; Soulard became a grotesque Cheshire Cat grin, while Carondelet formed a bird with wings outspread.

Both had been up for nearly forty-eight hours, only stopping in midday to nap in their makeshift command center. They'd become fixtures at the precinct; now the officers risked the wrath of their superior to come talk to them, sharing their frustrations with the fruitless search. One even brought them a fifth of Kentucky bourbon, which they passed back and forth through the night. Neither particularly enjoyed the taste, but it was a local delicacy that they would not experience again. Emily suggested they save some for the inspector, who was a connoisseur of liquor; George responded by drowning the last of it, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

The question remained, if- _when_ -they were to make it out of this ordeal, what the next step in their relationship would be. She had already been in town for several months in a transitional state picking up the pieces from the traumatic year behind them. While he could see the appeal in remaining in this fantasy world of pageantry and world culture, the fair would draw to a close in the fall, and the seasonal tourists would be forced to rejoin the rest of the world. Excusing himself to freshen up that morning, George had walked down to the train station and purchased his passage back to Toronto in one week's time. Then, standing before the kiosk with his wallet open, the clerk looking on impatiently, he'd bought another ticket. He would ask her when the time was right.

The two were quickly forming their own language of intimacy. A single look could convey hours of conversation, punctuated by stolen kisses and the barest grazes of fingertips. They were a working unit, but first and foremost they were lovers, cautiously venturing into the territory they'd been through before. And in these moments where her smile stole away his breath, or the butterflies clenched his stomach and refused to let go, George repeated his mantra: _There is no way she can say no to coming home._

Or perhaps she could. It would be her decision, but he couldn't imagine her abandoning him after they had reconnected. Because he was a writer, he often thought in grandiose concepts, and because he was a religious man, he credited the heavenly father for all his blessings. Without a doubt, Emily had been brought back into his life as a result of divine blessing. He didn't intend on letting her slip away without a fight.

"The university bursar froze Mr. Hampton's accounts," she said, flipping through the stacks of paper piled up on the table. "It's all disguised as clerical errors. Ten grand here, one hundred thousand there…" Shaking her head, she scribbled down a few figures and set to adding them.

Striving mightily to hide his yawn, George pulled out a chair and sat across from her. "Definitely enough to flee the country and be financially comfortable overseas?" He asked rhetorically.

She scoffed, eyes wide. "Enough to buy a small island in the Mediterranean and declare yourself the sovereign ruler of the local population."

"That wouldn't be too bad," he speculated, "King George of Newfoundland."

"Don't be ridiculous; it would be Queen Emily and her consort."

He covered the paper she'd been writing on with one hand just long enough to get her attention. " _Consort_?!" He protested in false offense.

"I've got my uses for you," she answered, eyes roaming his chest appraisingly. At the reddish blush that began to spread across his cheeks, she sat back with satisfaction, twirling the pencil between her fingertips. Then her gaze drifted upwards to the lobby of the precinct, and the utensil went flying out of her grasp.

Edward Vandeventer entered the room seconds later, just in time for George to stumble to his feet. The men shook hands somewhat awkwardly, and then rejoined Emily at the table.

"I understand that you haven't come across anything yet," he said, twiddling his thumbs. This was completely at odds with the image he'd projected of himself at the fundraiser the previous weekend; strip him of his finery and peace of mind, and he was just as unsure as the average young man.

He went on to tell them that at the close of the investigation that he and his parents planned to pack up and move back east to New Jersey. There were just too many unpleasant memories attached to St. Louis, and they needed a fresh start where the brothers Vandeventer could begin to get their finances in order. The gated community would live on in the hands of new management, and he would continue his higher education elsewhere. It seemed that his former university had quite a few staffing issues to work out.

"We've checked nearly every major venue we can think of," Emily confessed, gesturing to the map on the wall. "Might you have any particular insight as to what clue we're missing?'

Wincing, he acquiesced, "I used to think I knew that woman better than anyone, but I have to hand it to her. She was an excellent actress." He studied the blank spaces that were few and far between. "The one I knew as Evelyn used to have an odd fascination with the Olympic Games, always talking about how the opening ceremonies would be a sight to behold. Perhaps you ought to check there."

George wanted to tell him that this was impossible, that local security had the field on lockdown every hour of the day, and inspected every item that came in or out. But then again, stranger things were known to have happened.

And as Eva had written, it would _undoubtedly be a marvelous spectacle._

-0-

"Nothing's here," he hissed, his voice drowned out by the milling of the crowd. "We even checked the concession stand and under the risers. Nothing."

George and Emily were standing among half a dozen plain clothes officers some distance away from the newly christened Francis Field. Initially they had planned on observing the proceedings from the opposite side of the fence, but it seemed that their alter egos Mr. and Mrs. Troost had reserved seats for the prestigious event. Only four thousand tickets had been sold, but easily ten times that had flooded the lawn on the opposite side of campus, creating the most deafening cacophony either had ever heard. The ambient temperature was brutal enough, but the heat generated by thousands of people all standing within feet of one another was unbearable.

"Are you sure you saw her?" Emily looked to one of the officers, wiping the sweat from her brow. The massive fascinator and heavily beaded yoke she wore were absolutely stifling. At first going undercover had been thrilling in its deception, but now it was just uncomfortable.

"As sure as I know the back of my hand," he answered, for he'd spent hours going door to door asking the public if they'd seen the woman. "She was by the coat check with a man much older than her, if you don't mind me saying. Should we tell the men to arrest them?"

They took one sweeping examination of the crowd; any sudden turn of events would likely cause a panic. "No. But locate her in the stands, and watch her eyes. People tend to look towards areas of interest." Namely where she had hidden the bomb, if it were here at all.

"Watch for our signal," George ordered, taking off his top hat and holding it out at an exaggerated angle. His companion rolled her eyes- _couldn't he come up with something a little more subtle?_ -and hooked her arm around his elbow, pulling him towards the stadium.

"Their goal isn't mass casualty; it's only exacting revenge on those they believed have wronged them," she reminded him as they took their seats, keeping her voice to the barest whisper.

From the far corner of the field entered a group of well-dressed gentlemen, which George assumed to be organizers and sundry dignitaries. On the opposite side the athletes approached, each group dressed in national costume or touting their flag. Polite applause swelled from the crowd. "Anechka and Detective Kidwell are by the entrance, and the Vandeventers are keeping a low profile. Who else is there?"

Emily frowned and shifted in her seat, glancing to the side of the ovoid track. A smaller set of risers had been erected on the far side of the stadium in hopes of increasing attendance, and it was nearly full with the city's social elite. "First of all, there is you and I. Not to mention Miss Cartier on the front row."

The young lady sat among family friends, fanning herself and observing former Secretary of State Hay deliver the opening address. Representatives from the army were presently rolling an antique cannon into view, using a dolly and several ropes to move the mammoth assembly. George retrieved and rifled through the program; apparently at the conclusion of the National Anthem, a genuine artillery cannon used in the American Civil War will be fired in exhibition.

Just as the last military man was entering the side gate, a dark haired woman leaned over the barricade to blow him a kiss. He removed his cap, bowed shallowly, and continued on his way. The lady was gone a fraction of a second later, disappearing into the crowd. But there had been something familiar about the way she'd so effortlessly attracted the man's attention, how she carried herself and was calculating in her movements…

"Oh my God," George stammered, allowing the mild expletive to slip past his lips. "Oh my god, Emily. _It's there._ It's in the…"

At that moment the surrounding assemblage rose to their feet for the National Anthem, standing stock still as the band struck up the stately tune. Panicked, he seized her hand and together the two exited the grandstand. As soon as they were clear of the seats, they broke into a run, much to the consternation and confusion of the American observers.

Even the athletes, who had formed a half moon shape around the visiting bureaucrats, looked towards the gentleman who was waving his hat in the air like he was in some sort of fit. Officers from the Metropolitan Police Department converged on their location at once underneath the smaller risers, pushing the attending military men aside.

Just as they reached earshot of the last man, he had just set the charge in anticipation of the grand finale. Knowing full well that there was no stopping the cannon once it was activated, George bellowed, "Evacuate the stands!"

The response was immediate. Charlotte peered over the railing, her pretty face splitting in an expression of pure terror. Soon the shouts of panicked witnesses filled their ears as they pushed and shoved their way down the stairs. They had less than thirty seconds to act, and turning the barrel face down into the dirt wasn't going to cut it. Emily hurriedly rolled up her sleeves, looking certain death in the eye as she scrutinized the inside of the barrel. Sure enough, a glass cylinder about the width of three fingers had been situated along the inside edge and fixed to the iron with some kind of adhesive. It lay just beyond the rim of the broader end, rendering the gaseous charge almost invisible in bright light. Before she could give it a second thought or pay any heed to George's screams, she sheathed her parasol and plunged the end into the barrel.

It popped off almost immediately, clattering against the shaking projectile at the bottom. With the hooked end, Emily fished out the container, causing it to go flying just as the final cymbal crashed.

The highly pressurized cloud of dust pushed her off her feet, landing rather painfully on her back. She rolled over onto her stomach and pressed her knees to her chest as the cannonball soared overhead, landing somewhere in the field behind the stadium. For a fraction of a second Emily believed she had been hit; the charge had been deafening, and she heard nothing but shrill ringing in the ears. There was also the matter of her sudden inability to see; soon she realized this was due to the fact that she'd screwed her eyes shut in sheer panic. Opening them, she beheld several pairs of feet running towards her.

George was saying something, but that didn't mean she could understand it. She gratefully fell into his arms and allowed herself to be dragged a few feet away. Emily didn't know it, but she was trembling like a leaf in autumn. Through blurry vision caused by a sudden onset of vertigo, she beheld the diazomethane charge that now lay on the ground. It occurred to her that she must have fallen on top of it in her hurry to get out of the way, and it was extremely fortunate for all involved that it hadn't ruptured. By the vibrant yellow color to the gas, Emily could tell that it was incredibly concentrated.

Mayor Wells continued to extol the virtues of their fine city irrespective of the police action taking place in his peripheral vision. The spectators in the smaller bleachers took their seats once again, cautiously this time, talking quietly among themselves about what could have happened. The remaining officers and military men tried to appear nonchalant, gathering the sample and wandering off in the direction from whence they came.

Emily accepted her lover's hand and unsteadily came to her feet. Something didn't feel right; glancing over her shoulder, she saw her wig, singed brown and in utter disrepair. "Good riddance to the bloody thing," she mumbled, wincing at the loudness of her own voice.

As soon as they were outside of the prying eyes of their associates on the opposite side of the fence, George drew her in for a breathless kiss. Once they separated, he admonished, "Don't you scare me like that again."

From where they stood, the street was just barely visible. An equally impressive sized crowd lined the sidewalks; some had even brought picnic blankets and lawn chairs.

"What's the schedule of events for today?" She ground out, surprised how slurred her words still were.

He stopped his silent inventory of her, running his hands over her hair and cheeks to make sure she was in one piece. "Why, the marathon began a few hours ago. The short races will be run in the stadium after the-"

"Eva is going after Jonathan next," she insisted, disengaging out of the circle of his arms and staggering a few feet away.

George followed her closely, a hand wrapped protectively around her waist. "What's this? How do you know?"

They were quickly approaching the entrance to the stadium where they knew Anechka and the detective would be waiting. This was just as well; they were going to need all the help they could get.

"The letter. Why do you think she fled right after sending off the cannon, George? We've got to get moving." This would have made two kills in one day for their suspect, give or take several dozen innocent bystanders.

"What? Where?"

She stopped in her tracks and turned to him, struggling to make her words coherent after the fright of her near death experience. "It was all in writing. _And so we are at a crossroads._ The crossroads of the world while the fair is in town. Where the race intersects the main gates."

-0-

Mobilizing their group was difficult, as the crowd of spectators for the marathon was largely stationary. The route frequently veered off onto unpaved residential streets, so every once in awhile they would see a runner staggering on the uneven path, gasping for breath in the oppressive dusty air of the city. To their surprise, the roads had not been closed, causing the participants to have to dodge automobiles and trolley cars at every corner. The crowd was alight with speculative conversation about the contestants, who would soon return from their circuit of the neighborhoods of St. Louis County. There were two Africans running, one of whom had been chased off course by a neighborhood dog, much to their amusement. A man known only as the Cuban was entertaining the crowds with his jovial demeanor and jokes in broken English, stopping to accept little gifts along the path. But most of all, the name on everyone's lips was that of their local hero, Jonathan Larimore.

Detective Kidwell supplied each of them with weapons he'd brought from the precinct's armory, congratulating the pair briefly on their quick thinking. Upon seeing her friend so affected by Eva's treachery, Anechka even shouldered her gun, determined to get back at the woman for the affront on her family's wellbeing. The officers went ahead, searching faces in the crowd to see if they could bring an end to this without violence. George suspected they would have no such luck.

The entrance to the park was on a street corner in a commercial part of the city. The main thoroughfare met at an intersection with a quieter avenue, both of which were part of the route in some way, creating the perfect location for the city's common stock to congregate. People were sitting atop telephone boxes and standing in the gutters; amid the chaos, a gentleman in an exquisite checkerboard suit stood out categorically.

"Stay right there," George called out, hand on the hilt of the pistol resting in his waistband. "Arthur Hampton, you are under arrest for embezzlement of university funds, conspiracy to commit murder, and desecration of a corpse." He was sure there were several other charges that went unmentioned, not to mention theft and fraud, but didn't think that mattered at the moment. All around him, the people began to make room at the behest of the detective.

The Vice Chancellor turned in profile, just enough for them to see the furtive grin that was plastered there. When he raised his hands in mock surrender, Emily reached for them, only to have him dart across the street into oncoming traffic.

In that moment several marathon runners came around the corner from the west, including Jonathan. He skidded to a halt in the middle of the intersection, causing several streetcars to swerve and go around him. There was a shout from the adjacent corner, and then Eva burst forth from the crowd, gun at the ready.

Seeming to understand that something of great significance was about to take place, people began to flee in whatever direction their feet would carry them. George cocked his pistol, as did his three accomplices. There they stood at an impasse for several moments, and soon found themselves quite alone on the boulevard.

"It's all over, Eva!" Her lover cried, finger poised over the trigger of his own weapon. "It's time to give up the chase."

Her aim suddenly shifted from Jonathan to Arthur. "This is the end. It doesn't matter if we got Charlotte or not. She'll stay silent until the day she dies. Let me do this, and then I'll leave with you."

His laughter then was a sharp bark, cold and mirthless. "After all this time, how can you not understand? I only needed you to convince the Vandeventers. And if Francis Field was blown up in the process-that didn't matter. It was only more for my Pike fund in the end. You're not coming with me. I'm going to walk away from this, and you will spend the rest of your days in prison. That's where your kind belongs."

Eva slowly came to the realization that she hadn't been the puppetmaster in this charade, her lips morphing into an aberrant smile. Then the haze of comprehension cleared and her normal sultry smirk was back. Her eyes flashed with rage.

But the recognition came too late. Arthur fired, downing his former lover with a single shot to the heart. She gasped and sunk to her knees, the weapon tumbling out of her grasp. Anechka acted on a whim, running to her side and supporting the woman as her breathing grew ragged and blood began to soak through her bodice.

"Tell my William I loved him most," Eva rasped with the last of her strength, and spoke no more.

Detective Kidwell lowered his weapon and lunged to incapacitate the suspect, but not before Mr. Hampton could get in one final shot in Jonathan's direction. In the blink of an eye, someone pushed him away.

As Emily looked on with abject horror, George fell to the ground clutching his abdomen.

 _(to be continued, one last time)_


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Here's the final chapter! I want to thank everyone that favorited, followed, and commented. Everyone who normally reads my work knows that I've been hinting this story for months. Your continued support and questions gave me the push I needed to finish! Next I'll be working on a sequel to a Star Wars story I wrote this spring, but after that, I've got a few ideas for more chapter fics here.

Now that I've finished my second proper chapter fic for this fandom, I'm curious. Do you all prefer my style of writing here or in _Master of Tides_? Be brutally honest about what works and what doesn't; it can only make me a better writer!

Until we meet again, be well and be kind to one another!

 **George and Emily Take St Louis**

 **Chapter Thirteen**

She wanted to scream, but it was as if someone had stolen her breath. Every step Emily took towards her fallen lover only increased her heart rate; eventually she felt so faint that she collapsed, crawling the last few steps to his side.

The sudden movement was enough to distract Mr. Hampton, who was quickly incapacitated. Emily didn't notice; she was too busy shaking him, calling his name, _anything_ it took to ascertain George's wellbeing. The impact of the bullet had knocked off his feet, and presently he was curled into the fetal position, eyes wide with shock. Before he could formulate a coherent sentence, she had rolled him onto his back. A pocketknife came out from her handbag, and the doctor was fully prepared to cut open his shirt to get to the bullet.

"Emily, for God's sake!" He cried out, intercepting her wrist halfway to his chest. Then he did the honors himself, ripping away at the buttons to reveal another layer of fabric against his stomach. "It's Detective Murdoch's newest invention, a more effective bulletproof vest. Came in the post a few days ago. It's made of-"

" _I don't care!_ " She shrieked, though her curious fingers explored the outer shell. The material felt like metal, though she knew it was probably multiple layers of stiff plastic. Sure enough, right about his belt the vest puckered, indicating that the projectile had stopped about halfway through. No wonder he'd been sweating so much more than her that morning!

Her hand was drawn back and she slapped him across the face. "That's for not telling me, and for giving me a heart attack!"

Taking his punishment with undue resignation, George looked up at her delicate features, lovely as they were fraught. How _telling_ that even after two near death experiences in the space of an hour, they were still behaving as they always did. Before she could say anything else, spoiling the moment, he drew her into a breathless kiss.

She tittered against his lips, and he knew that she found this just as amusing as he did. Somewhere behind them, a horn heralded the impatience of a motorist stopped at the intersection.

Jonathan offered them both a hand. "You saved my life," he said quietly.

"Don't mention it," George replied, "Now get moving, you've got a race to finish!"

A policeman's carriage had arrived to take their suspect off to the cells, while two morgue attendants were draping Eva's body in cloth. Everyone was working quickly, but the opportunity to not make a scene was long since past. Mr. Larimore looked at the two of them, bouncing on his toes, brows furrowed in concern. And then he was off, arms close to his chest and heels slapping the ground. The stalled travelers jeered at him as he cut between their ranks, and then he turned the corner and disappeared.

"Well, Dr. Grace, are you going to want conduct this autopsy?" Detective Kidwell asked in a suspiciously jovial tone for someone who had just witnessed a murder. Perhaps he was just grateful that at long last this was over.

She thought of Julia, who had kept an extensive file on the woman, and William, who would be grateful just to know that his admirer would be pursuing him no longer. "I don't see what the harm could be."

-0-

"I've got the ticket now," Crabtree declared, his voice muffled as he struggled with the mounds of paper littering the interview room. "Instead of parading him before the court and taking the risk that his occupation lends itself to clemency, why don't we have everyone line up and kick him in the-"

" _George_ ," she admonished. The half dozen file folders they'd brought were already full of diction taken from witnesses, motive flowcharts, and background information on their suspects. Murdoch was in the habit of throwing away nothing accrued in the process of the investigation; after finishing their written depositions, everything usually had to be bundled up and sent away to the lawyer who would take on the case. For the sake of all involved, both hoped that Mr. Hampton would be punished to the full extent of the law.

The city map tacked to the wall came down in a cascade that nearly dwarfed Emily. He smirked at the sight of her fighting with the paper, pushing it this way and that. Every few seconds her face would be revealed, biting her lower lip with concentration. Finally she caught wind of his amusement: "Is something funny?"

"You're adorable," he answered with a rueful smile.

She made a grotesque face, eyes crossed and tongue sticking out, as if to prove how decidedly _not adorable_ she was. Just that instant, Detective Kidwell entered the room, brusque and businesslike as usual. "What of the autopsy report on Miss Pearce?"

Emily cleared her throat and resumed her treatment of the map, somewhat embarrassed that they'd been caught flirting like teenagers. "It's on your desk, sir."

"Much obliged," he nodded to the both of them, standing at the head of the table with his arms crossed. "I would like to thank the both of you for your help in solving this murder."

Was this the same man that only a week and change ago hadn't wanted their assistance? The Detective was a gruff man who so often kept his emotions in check, but George suspected this was his roundabout way of admitting that his precinct couldn't have done it alone.

"It was our pleasure," he said, and shook his hand.

After coming around the table to shake hands with Emily, Kidwell maintained, "All the best to both of you."

The room was silent for some time; both understood that this was the end to an established routine. The spare ticket weighed heavily in George's pocket.

"He just wants us out of his interview room," she observed, and he agreed.

-0-

" _Meet me in St. Louis, Louis, meet me at the fair! Don't tell me the lights are shining anyplace but there!_ "

Singing and laughing around mouthfuls of fairy floss, George and Emily made their way down The Pike. It was mere moments until sundown; cumulus clouds rolled lazily across the great semicircle of the sky, making the heat a little more bearable.

Once they had finished cataloging the evidence, it occurred to them that they could finally catch up on the entertaining pursuits they hadn't had time for during the investigation. Together they observed European glass weavers work before a giant furnace, forming the molten material into painstakingly detailed tablecloths and neckties. Emily splurged on a decorative glass bowtie about the size of two fingers, whose blue and silver streaks caught in the light. When he pointed out that it was a little too heavy to be worn in the hair, she'd reached over and tucked it into the collar of his shirt, where it remained for over an hour. They'd watched divers search for loot in an artificial deep sea, complete with real coral and even a few tropical fish. The Great Siberian Railway whisked them off to far away Manchuria through a series of rolling murals. And when they'd had their fill of attractions they went in search of refreshments, opting to continue up the avenue and indulge in their treats.

Emily took another giant bite of the floss, sputtering as it made contact with her nose and cheeks. It was too late to try and be graceful about it, as her teeth were already stained blue from whatever dye they'd mixed in with it. "I'm not quite sure about this. It tastes like candy, but it gets all over the place and melts when you touch it."

His stomach was already pained with cramps, as he wasn't used to consuming so much sugar. "That's a pity, because it's so tempting to touch. It looks so soft, like cotton." George made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat.

"What's that?"

"Perhaps they ought to call it _cotton candy_ ," he speculated. "It's just as alliterative, and more descriptive. You wouldn't want a child thinking this stuff was made by fairies."

"Wouldn't you wish!"

A sharp curve in the street brought The Pike facing due north, the great curve of the Observation Wheel rising into the sky before them. George took the empty floss box from her and threw it out, drawing her in by the waist as they walked. She returned the gesture. With his free hand, he offered her a sip from the bottle he was carrying. "You know, I was initially disgusted by the idea of iced tea, but it's perfectly refreshing on a summer's day. Perhaps I ought to introduce the concept to Detective Murdoch."

She shook her head. "Good luck with that. You're more likely to convince the Inspector to part ways with his scotch."

It was getting late, and the line for the one attraction he'd been looking forward to for the past few weeks was somewhat manageable. He took one look at the lovely woman beside him and decided it was now or never.

"Let's go on the Observation Wheel. My treat," he said as they approached the ticket booth.

Emily smiled and relinquished her hold on his jacket. "Big spender."

There were several dozen passenger cars, each secured to a massive axle by metal spokes. As Emily stepped into the car, the wooden floor squeaked in response, and she almost fled then and there. She's heard through the grapevine that the wheel rose almost _three hundred feet_ above the city; most _birds_ didn't even fly that high!

George lead her to one of the windows as the ride lurched to life. Their ascent was fairly stately, but the only thing separating them from falling to the earth below was a wide-toothed mesh and a security guard, standing in the corner and monitoring the behavior of the fifty or so people in the car. Looking over her shoulder, Emily was surprised by the sheer size of the compartment-surely, it was larger than the house she'd grown up in.

At the top of the rotation the wheel stopped momentarily to allow the passengers to enjoy the view. In the distance, the roofs of the palaces of industry glittered in the waning sunlight. Farther still, the trees surrounding the campus of Washington University gave way to miles of sidewalks between the buildings. The people far below were so small they could be mistaken for ants. Emily let out a sigh, along with all of the tension in her body, melting into her companion's side.

"I've got something to ask of you," George began slowly, already wondering if this was a mistake. But he pressed on, for if he didn't broach the subject, he would never know. "Your job back home is taken, but there's plenty of hospitals in the city looking for talented doctors like you. I'm sure your old boarding house would let you back in. The lads would be so glad to see you-"

She turned to him, watching his eyes widen in apprehension with each sentence. _Surely_ he didn't believe that after all they'd been through, after their mutual declaration of love and the memorable night that followed, that she was going to remain in the city?

"Detective Kidwell offered me Dr. Haynes's job," she interrupted without preamble, for he really ought to know.

It was as if he'd been stung. Shrinking away from her embrace, George took a step back. "I understand, Emily. It's your life and you have every right to take the position."

"I said no," she insisted, taking his hand. "I'm coming with you, to start a new life in Toronto. We can't avoid the inevitable; it's where I belong."

To her delight, his lips spread in his trademark crooked grin. Fishing around in his pocket, he produced the two tickets he'd purchased earlier in the week.

Dr. Grace was utterly touched by the gesture. She took them, reading over the date of departure in several days' time, and held them to her chest next to her rapidly beating heart. By that time, George had drawn her in closer, so close that their noses were almost touching. What he said next was enough to take her breath away.

"Emily, come home to me."

-0-

"There's _kotlety_ from the shop packed in your valise," Anechka explained as they stood before the station nearest the river, waiting for the train bound for Cleveland to arrive. And _pirozhki_ that I made myself. I remembered how you detested the cabbage, so I stuffed them with rice this time."

It didn't take an expert on the human mind to tell that her dear friend was distressed. And why shouldn't she be? After living with the Kapralovs for several months, she was almost like family. No other woman understood Emily like she did, outside of Julia and the other ladies from the suffrage movement. She would miss the kindly Russian girl, her off color humor and her unique take on life. But for the sake of reserving her tears, she couldn't put off their farewell any longer.

"I'll miss you, _podruga_. Take care." They embraced, rocking back and forth slowly as they did so.

When they separated, Anechka asked, "You will write to me from the city in Canada, yes? And you will not forget me?"

This time, Emily couldn't help but laugh. "How could I _ever_?"

Some distance away, George stood on alert for the incoming train. He felt exhausted, yet fulfilled, for he was returning to Toronto with more than he left with. How could he think, _even for a second_ , that he could live without her in his life? Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a bench and took a seat, his suitcase tucked between his knees.

"Mr. Crabtree, is it?" The bashful question came swathed in an unmistakable Québécois accent.

He turned to the socialite, who was dressed for travel, with no less than a dozen suitcases scattered around her. "Miss Cartier! What a surprise! Are you off to Montreal?"

"I am indeed. There's a gentleman that's been inquiring after me. But first I'm off to Chicago for a bit of shopping. I dare say I deserve it after the summer I've had." Not ceasing the motion of her fan, she rested her other hand on the slight swell of her abdomen.

He offered no arguments to that, for only now would he be able to sleep through the night. "In that case, I hope that you two are very happy together."

"Likewise for you and your lady friend," she replied, and their conversation descended into silence.

A train whistle heralded the arrival of their transportation. Emily came through the gates, giving Anechka one last hug as she did so. Her face turned upwards to meet his gaze, and he could see that her tears were about to flow.

Before he could rise to join her, Charlotte grabbed his arm. "I would like to thank you, sir. For everything you have done for myself and the Vandeventer family, you will never know the significance."

"It's been an honor," he told her, and meant it.

Once they were settled in their seats and the conductor had checked their tickets, George sought out Emily's hand. Her eyes were closed as they pulled out of the station; as she opened them, two tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks.

"I'm going to miss it, too," he confessed, offering her a handkerchief.

It took nearly an hour for them to reach the sprawling cornfields of southern Illinois. They settled into their idle pursuits, she with a medical journal propped up on her knees and he scribbling away novel ideas in a notebook. "What do you say to me moving to a boarding house closer to yours?"

"That sounds lovely." She settled her head into the crook of his neck, her curls tickling his ear.

Of course it had been that easy. But he wanted to emphasize that this time he was going to try everything in his power to make this work. "I'll take you out to dinner twice a week, and to the theater every Friday night. Heavens, I might even stop by for breakfast."

Outside their window, they were passing by a small farming community. Emily took in the sight of the clapboard roofs and dirt roads with interest. "I'm sure my landlady will be much obliged."

"And you'll have to listen to all of my horrid jokes," George reminded, poking her in the ribcage. To his amusement, she made a face and elbowed him back.

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

 **The End**


End file.
